Fight it like you mean it
by MerryLittleMess
Summary: "Don't make me kill you over a mistake! Just let me go", the boy pleaded, his back to the wall. Aramis watched the robber warily, loathe to force a showdown while the youth was armed. Athos of course had other ideas, rushing right up to the bandit until the barrel of the rifle was pressed against his white dress shirt. "Come on, shoot, damn you!", he shouted. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note** : Good day to you, dear reader! Welcome to the world of sword fighting, brotherhood and adventure of our four favorite heroes. However, you might notice that there are guns instead of muskets, cars for horses and politicians to protect instead of kings. In short, this is my first modern AU (I'm so excited!). I really hope you enjoy the tale. Please let me know what you think in the comment section below!

 **Trigger warning** : Please expect swearing, graphic violence, mentions of torture and some very bad jokes.

 **Disclaimer** : I borrowed the protagonists and a good deal of dialogue. All rights to BBC.

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 **Fight it like you mean it**

 **Chapter 1**

There's something creepy about the beginning of November. Maybe it's all those forgotten pumpkins sitting on people's porches, their faces warped with rot. Or it might be the cold that creeps into every home like a foreboding shadow of winter. The months were certainly colored in a dark gray hue, especially here in the city of Kiel in northern Germany, where ice cold drizzle and sudden bone-cutting gusts of wind seemed to be the only available weather. Right now, one of these storm explosions was tearing at the old spruces outside like a riptide. Aramis could not smell the salty scent of sea water, but he knew it would penetrate everything once they returned outside.

In stark contrast, the light inside the villa turned art gallery and politician meet and greet was shining warmly. Off to his right, a high end Bose sound system played soothing violin music that was ignored by the elegantly clothed pack of rich pricks. The echoes of Chopin and chitchat were lost somewhere between high wooden rafters and classy white stucco of the 1920s. Champagne that probably cost more than Aramis made in a year was sipped and often discarded like stale water. Aramis shook his head in incomprehension but silently let it go and saved the information away in the 'useless file' right next to the rotting pumpkins outside.

While the VIPs around him continued with their ceaseless chatter, he fiddled a little with the golden cuffs of his black suit. Condemned to yet another evening of idleness, Aramis let his mind wander. They'd been on this trip for a fortnight, city hopping from Berlin to Köln to Munich and then back north to Hamburg and now Kiel, a smaller sailing city on the east coast of Germany. Porthos and him had been visible bodyguards for the French Minister's wife Anne, whereas Athos with his flawless etiquette was playing the foreign dignitary and followed their Lady like a shadow during their whole voyage. Right now, they were conversing with some Arabian nobles, Anne radiant in her understated turquoise gown with Athos only a step behind in a navy suit that must have been extremely uncomfortable, judging from his colleague's sour expression. Then again, Athos hadn't looked happy in a while, equally bored as his two friends. He carried shadows wherever he went these days. Shadows, rain and salt. Boy, I'll be glad when this trip is finally over.

Security was more relaxed now that the official meetings were over and only two more appointments were on the schedule before the highly anticipated return flight to Paris and some much needed rest. All three other bodyguards in the hall seemed to have similar things in mind, an air of boredom penetrating their stances. If I were a criminal, now would be the time to act, Aramis concluded with a wry smile. Nevertheless, he resharpened his attention like a sword after too much use.

Perhaps that was why he was the only one to react in time when all of a sudden, six flashbangs sailed through the window like stones thrown by careless children. Aramis counted them and calculated their trajectory in the split second the sudden rise of adrenaline in his blood froze him on the spot, rendering everything surreal yet impossibly detailed. Then his heartbeat picked up the pace as he threw himself into Porthos to land behind a delicate wooden bar, shielding himself and his friend from the worst of the light. The sound was deafening even though Aramis had been marginally prepared for it and had his hands clapped over his ears. In the afterglow, screams erupted from the mighty men and women of Europe who ran for the nearest exits like headless chickens.

Aramis calmly pulled his black Glock 17 out of his shoulder holster and didn't bat an eye as a group of hostiles swung through the already shattered windows. Ski masks, dark green uniforms, heavy combat boots and large German rifles. As soon as they landed and detached themselves from their rappelling gear, shots erupted, not much louder than popping balloons to his damaged ears yet a thousand times more deadly. Most of them embedded themselves harmlessly in the stucco above their heads, but some were zipping right through the running crowd. Two bodyguards were hit and immediately dead on the floor and the third had abandoned his station, leaving only the Musketeers to defend the assembly. Both Porthos and Aramis waited for the right opportunity to strike back, acutely aware that they were not on native ground and a single civilian casualty could have disastrous consequences for themselves and France.

In the middle of the spacious room, the chandelier crashed to the ground from the dark brown rafters. Glass shattered and skipped across the mahogany floorboards like the spilled pearls in Cinderella. Aramis considered a counterattack, then froze as the automatic gunfire broke off simultaneously. The intruders had spread strategically around the space and were now blocking the exits.

"Nobody move! Keine Bewegung!"

Professionals? While the ringing in his ears slowly receded, Porthos tapped him on the shoulder, pointing out Athos on the other side of the mountain of broken glass. The third of their trio was shielding their Lady and hid her from view with his body. One hand was unobtrusively turned behind his back and Aramis wondered whether their leader was handling a phone to inform the authorities or whether he was gripping a weapon. Aramis nodded to the giant next to him, then quickly retreated out of sight as the men pulled out small dark blue garbage bags.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery. Put your valuables in here and nobody else will get hurt."

"Nobody else?", shrieked their host, a fat German merchant named Richter. He waddled forward in his finery with chubby fists balled. "You have no right..."

He didn't get the chance to finish. Nor did he get the chance to ever do anything else stupid ever again, because the leader of the robbers ruthlessly put a bullet right between his eyes. Next to Aramis, Porthos inhaled sharply.

"Move?", he hissed, referring to Aramis, who was caught between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, their Lady was relatively safe with Athos and concealed by the crowd's number of bodies. On the other hand, the criminals had proven that they didn't care whether they wasted life. Six men against two of them. Athos might be able to take down the hostile next to him, but that was far from guaranteed since he wouldn't endanger their charge under any circumstances.

"It's too many for a frontal assault. I could take a couple out from here...", he whispered back.

"Your necklace! Now!", the leader meanwhile barked at one of the women and when she didn't comply fast enough, he hit her with a vicious backhand. As the Musketeer heard multiple hostages shift and the robber next to him curse quietly, he used the temporary diversion to quickly reply "Yep, move!" and burst into motion.

Heading straight for the nearest opponent, he chose a swift finger punch to the adam's apple, which would render the man mute and thus provide an incapacitated body shield. However, his lightning fast fingers only met empty air where vulnerable flesh should have been. The bandit had ducked just in time, but Aramis managed to grab his wrist and turn it painfully so that the man was forced to release his weapon. However, the Musketeer was surprised as his opponent used the grip on him to propel their bodies into each other. Off balance, unsteady feet didn't provide enough leverage to avoid the elbow to the ribs and the knee to the groin chasing it.

"Fuck!" A groan escaped him as Aramis fought to stay upright, countering with an uppercut that was expertly blocked and turned aside. Damn, that guy was quick! Aramis danced to the side as the robber himself tried to put the pressure on Aramis with a flurry of only slightly sloppy strikes. Knowing the interaction was taking far too long and yet unable to overpower this agile young man, Aramis threw pride and technique overboard and lunged at the man with his full weight, thus crashing him against the wall. He felt something crack beneath him and used his advantage to push the chest sideways and pull out the robber's legs from under him. Finally, the tenacious little shit went down.

"Aramis!" Athos' urgent voice spurred Aramis to pivot and stare right into the mouths of three guns that were pointed at him.

"Err… Parley?", Aramis said and slowly put up his hands. The man on the ground behind him actually chuckled at the Pirates of the Caribbean reference before he moaned loudly and held his ribs. Aramis' own bones twitched in sympathy, then his face drained of color as one man smacked him forcefully with the butt of his automatic rifle. Stars burst across his vision and he swayed like the spruces outside.

"Hast du gesehen, was er mit Charlie gemacht hat?"

"Bringen wir ihn um!"

Aramis didn't know that much German, but he guessed from the tone of voice that things weren't going in his favor. Behind them, the politicians were all gaping at the scene like fish on land, except Porthos, who was on his knees in front of another robber. Next to the pair was a dead intruder with a broken neck.

"I surrender", Aramis tried, clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain on his left temple. He could feel a small stream of blood trickling down his cheek and would have loved to shake a few long, dark brown strands of hair out of his field of vision, yet he didn't dare breathe wrong.

"Killing an innocent man defies every principle of chivalry", Athos contributed from somewhere in the back of the crowd, thankfully diverting the enemies' focus. The leader laughed humorlessly.

"Chivalry." He spat on the ground. "I'll show you chivalry!" His arm whipped around sent a bullet right into the people that were huddled together. Aramis couldn't see the impact but a man screamed. Moreover, the crowd was close to a panic. He could feel the unbearable tension crackling in the air, could see their wide eyes and too fast breathing. Things were about to go very wrong.

"Please, you have what you came here for. Just go. It's not like we'll be able to stop you. Or follow. The police aren't here yet. You'll get away scot-free." Aramis' head was spinning from the senseless violence and the blow to his face, but he had to reason with them. The four men around him had slowly returned to their original positions, even the injured one after he'd painstakingly collected his weapon. Now they were all watching him.

"Here, take my watch. Take everything you want, just don't hurt anyone else."

"Musketeer scum. Walking around like you own the world, shouting orders. We'll show you how not in control you are."

"You two, take a woman each and execute them outside as payment for Martin's death."

"No, wait…!" Aramis stuttered, dumbfounded by the horror of the situation.

"Quiet now!", one robber kicked him in the stomach, causing Aramis to loose his breath and fall to the floor. He couldn't breathe, lungs wouldn't cooperate, the ground was falling away… there. Gasping, Aramis rolled onto his back and witnessed the two biggest intruders pull women from the party. Neither of them were Anne, but Aramis recognized an old German lady as a kindhearted charity manager. She'd been in Berlin too, and now she was going to die.

Porthos tried to intervene but was pushed back down. Aramis watched, fingers inching towards his still hidden gun. His eyes wandered to the attentive smaller robber he'd fought and the man caught his gaze. I'm on to you, the brown orbs seemed to say, yet the man didn't call out a warning. Instead, he let Aramis continue and turned his head away on purpose, Aramis was sure of it.

Furthermore, the bandit stepped closer to the leader and thereby blocked his sight of the Musketeer. "Hey, boss, I don't know about this..."

"Back to your post!" The ringleader shoved his subordinate in the same instance Aramis' fingers curled around his Glock. Sensing his chance, he targeted one of the executioners to be, took close aim and shot.

It could not have been more than one second, but the other one of the robbers had pulled the German lady in front of him, making it impossible for Aramis to take care of the threat. Even as he heard another shot from Athos' direction, he knew that there were two hostiles plus the small bandit left and he was a sitting duck to the hostage taker that was standing not four meters away from him.

Bracing himself for the pain to come, he was astonished to be hit by a warm spray of blood instead of a freezing bullet. Somewhere to his left, something crashed loudly, but all Aramis could hear was the plink plink plink of shells on the floor. It originated from the middle of the room where the smaller robber stood, arms with the rifle outstretched and chest heaving. His weapon was pointed straight at the dead hostile next to the women.

"How…?"

Suddenly, the gun swung around again as the man stepped back hurriedly. Pointing the weapon at Aramis, Porthos and Athos in turn, he retreated to the broken windows. But where was the final attacker? Aramis couldn't find him and concluded that the leader must have made his getaway in the intense moments he was otherwise engaged. Nonetheless, this left one threat to deal with.

"Put the gun down!", Athos ordered with his best aristocratic expression of disdain. In return, the direction of the robber's rifle settled on him.

"No can do. You'd shoot me or send me to jail", the man replied and Aramis was immediately certain that they were dealing with a very young individual. It was also apparent, though, that the words were laced with determination.

"You could only shoot one of us before we took care of ya", Porthos argued in a deceptively friendly manner. By then, all three Musketeers had their guns pointed at the fleeing form. The man glanced behind him and Aramis remembered the view outside. Rain, storm and a drop too high to even consider jumping. The leader must have taken the rappelling hook as he left, though, because the robber began to inch to his left towards the next broken window.

"Nu-uh", Aramis tutted and stepped into his path.

"Let me go or I will kill you." It was an empty threat, yet Aramis wondered whether the youth might be desperate enough to commit suicide by forcing the others' hands.

"Shoot him and it's murder." Porthos indicated Athos. The bandit shrugged, but it seemed forced.

"One less Musketeer, who cares?"

"Hold your fire. If I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to die. You still have your whole life in front of you", Aramis reminded him seriously.

"Step back!" As Porthos, Athos and Aramis closed in like sharks, the man's fear was obviously warring with his bravado. The gun in his hands was shaking.

"I will shoot!"

"So do it", Athos answered, his voice dry as if discussing the weather. "Shoot, little criminal. Shoot."

"Don't make me kill you over a mistake! Just let me go", the boy pleaded, his back to the wall. Aramis almost felt sorry for him if it weren't for the lethal danger he emanated like a cornered tiger. Better not step too close, Aramis thought, but of course Athos had other ideas, rushing right up to the bandit until the barrel of the rifle was pressed against his white dress shirt.

"Come on, shoot, damn you!", he shouted. Aramis' groaned inwardly as he saw the distraught boy's finger tighten over the trigger. Out of options, he jumped at him, pushing up the arm just as a shot loosened. They landed in a pile of arms and legs, but while Athos helped his friend back to his feet, Porthos tried to subdue the youth. Unfortunately, as Aramis could tell from experience, the robber was not an easy mark and kicked and slipped out of Porthos' choke hold like an eel. Subsequently, he tried to break loose only to be confronted by a very annoyed Athos.

"Enough!", Athos bellowed and when the boy didn't obey, he struck him down with a well placed right hook. The boy crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut and lay unmoving. Silence descended on the rest of them like vultures after a battle, interrupted only by the womens' crying and the crack of glass beneath Porthos' boots as he efficiently handcuffed the robber.

"Anne?", Aramis asked, searching for her in the sea of faces. She emerged, poise intact.

"I am fine."

"Thank God." He couldn't help himself, he smiled in relief. Her answering smile, although less wide and more polite, caused his heart to flutter slightly.

"You gotta be kidding me", Porthos muttered, prompting Aramis' thoughts to return to the problem at hand. More precisely, the shredded room and the enemy who had been unmasked by Porthos. They all stared at the tanned face wordlessly - the boy couldn't be more than eighteen years old.

"Looks like Aramis got his ass handed to him by a fucking kid", Porthos said. Aramis grinned unashamed.

"Kid's a born fighter."

"The question of course being what we do with him now?", Athos asked. It was a rhetorical question since they all knew what would happen now. Interrogation, trial, jail. However, the fat host's wife advanced on them, tears in her eyes and a long shard of glass in her wildly shaking fist. "He killed my husband. An eye for an eye, I say. I've been a hunter. Give me your gun, Herr Athos, or step aside, and I will do it myself!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nobody's killing anybody", Porthos said, glancing at Anne and Athos. The latter nodded, obviously of the same mind as he surveyed the furious expressions on the politicians' faces.

"We'll be taking him with us. He's in our custody", he declared in a voice that didn't allow any room for argument. To Porthos he said: "Pick him up. We're leaving."

And they did so without any other delays, Aramis flanking Anne behind Athos and Porthos. Behind their back murmurs erupted, but they washed off Aramis like water. His head hurt like Hades, as did his private area, but his bodily concerns were inconsequential compared to the more pressing matters at hand.

Why had the assembly been targeted? Jewelry simply couldn't be enough incentive to risk so much security. Why? And by whose orders? Who was the leader who had gotten away? And why had the young criminal flipped on his comrades? Why did you save my life?, Aramis silently wanted to know, fixing his eyes on the battered form of their captive.

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 ** _German translations:_**  
 _Keine Bewegung - Freeze!_  
 _Hast du gesehen, was er mit Charlie gemacht hat? - Did you see what he did to Charlie?_  
 _Bringen wir ihn um! - Let's kill him!_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hi! Thanks for the reviews, favorites and follows, I'm flattered. I won't bore you with any more talk - here's the next chapter!

Yuka: Thank you so much for leaving a review! And thanks for the lovely compliment. I love that you think that my story is cool. :)

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 **Chapter 2**

"Where am I?" The boy's voice was rougher than it had been in the villa. He blinked sluggishly, coughed and tried to flex his arms, which didn't work very well because they were handcuffed behind his back. That revelation seemed to wake the criminal up right quick, his head snapping up only to result in a pathetic groan. Yeah, messing with Athos was rarely a good idea.

Upon realizing that he couldn't move from the chair he was sitting on, the boy fixed his furious glare on the redheaded first-aid angel in front of him. "Where am I?", he repeated, again not hitting the right tone to speak to a lady at all. Thankfully, Constance Bonacieux had dealt with worse and could give back as good as she got.

"In my husband's house", she answered, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. He again squirmed against his bonds as she ignored his discomfort and continued to dab at his face with a damp rag. She slowly and methodically cleaned the blood off the bandit's face where Athos' ring had split the skin upon impact. The robber watched her with a mix of distrust, impatience - and admiration for her figure. When she noticed the latter, she smacked him lightly with the towel. "Stop looking at me like that."

"What else am I supposed to look at?", he snapped but grinned. Interestingly, he seemed mostly at ease as he let his eyes roam over the dusty stockroom. There wasn't much to see, really. Bent shelves full of dusty cardboard boxes. The occasional spiderweb. Even more dust on the floor except for some bigger and smaller footsteps. A small window with a crack through it somewhere higher than he could reach even if he managed to get off the uncomfortable chair they'd oh so graciously arranged for him. Aside from the shelves, there was a yellow plastic bin in the corner and a naked light bulb swung lazily above him.

Furthermore, the young man noticed with a shiver and a look down at his feet, they'd stripped him of his combat boots, jacket and weapons, even the hidden ones. Nevertheless, he shook his head at Constance, his even brown hair flying.

"No, I can't stay here."

"Oh?" She giggled and finished her ministrations. "And how exactly are you going to waltz out of here? Besides, you can barely walk. You're in no shape to fight if that's what you're thinking of. I have three older brothers, I know that look in a man's eyes. Whatever it is you set out to do, forget it, darling."

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze traveling over her red sneakers, polka dotted dress and light jeans jacket. Being mocked by a girl like her must be a new experience for him.

"It's none of your business." If he could, he probably would have crossed his arms in front of him right about now. With the way things stood, all he could do was glare and shuffle his feet, and even that effect was ruined by the spectacular black eye and the white sport socks he was wearing. Constance surely wasn't intimidated. She bent down to retrieve her supplies and leveled her own impressive stare at him. "You made it my business when you were thrown at my feet."

"You're a beautiful woman, I'm sure you're used to boys falling for you."

"Perhaps they should have just left you in Herr Richter's villa to be lynched by the mob." That seemed to sober him up some. He winced, rubbing his wrists against the iron handcuffs. His hair fell into his eyes as he looked at the ground for a second, then straightened.

"My apologies. I'm not usually so ill-mannered. My name is d'Artagnan. What's yours?"

"Bonacieux. Constance Bonacieux." She waited, one hand at her waist. "Is that what you do for a living, d'Artagnan? Rob and kill innocent people?"

"No, of course not!" He was obviously affronted by the mere thought. Funny, considering the circumstances.

"I was looking for a musketeer. His name is Athos." He swallowed forcefully. "Athos murdered my father, Constance. That's why I must find him."

"To do what?" When he didn't answer even after a lengthy silence, she huffed and turned on the spot, marching towards the metal door at the end of the smallish room. Halfway there, she looked over her shoulder and addressed somebody further into the room. "He's all yours, boys."

Startled, d'Artagnan struggled to see behind him and was greeted by the sight of the three musketeers huddled together on a tatty purple couch. The one in the middle with the longer hair and mustache as well as the mountain on the right with the very short black hair, entirely black outfit and dark skin grinned at him. "Nice to meet you, d'Artagnan", they said in unison.

The more slender man of the two got up, tipping his imaginary hat. "My name is Aramis and that's Porthos", he waved at his companion lazily while he stalked over. The boy's face, which was still displaying his emotions openly, turned apprehensive as he witnessed Aramis' graceful way of moving and heard Porthos crack his knuckles.

"Time to pay the reckoning for Mr. Richter", Porthos said, stepping ever more close as the boy seemed to shrink into the hard surface of the chair. "I bet you he's gonna say he doesn't have a clue what we're talking about."

Aramis was still grinning in a predatory manner. "Then we'd have to hurt him."

"Why wait? Let's just hurt him now." That was Porthos again. d'Artagnan watched them like a tennis match, his expressive brown eyes following their every move. His chin jutted out a little in defiance.

"We could go like that. Or", Aramis scrutinized the boy on the chair thoughtfully, "we could just skip to the confession part. It would save us time and you pain. A lot of pain."

"I suppose you're more the punch first, ask questions later type?", the criminal quipped. Aramis smiled right along with him even though he pulled out a fancy bronze revolver at the same time.

"More like the kill first, ask questions never type", Porthos commented. "After all, we don't need you all that much."

"People say I'm quite good with these. And I wanted to try my birthday present on a living person for weeks now", Aramis picked up the trail. Still, the boy put up a brave front and didn't back down.

"You wouldn't dare. You're some bodyguards from overseas. You wouldn't dare, that's murder."

"We won't tell if you won't", Porthos said, leaning down to pat d'Artagnan's cheek condescendingly. The boy arched his head back to avoid the touch, prompting Porthos to chuckle darkly. That was until the robber lunged forward and clamped his teeth around the flesh of the big man's hand.

"Shit!" Aramis was there immediately and freed Porthos by ramming his fist into the boy's body. At the last moment, the Spaniard remembered the bruised ribs of their prisoner and pulled the hit, reducing the force. Nonetheless, d'Artagnan was rocked back against the backrest of the chair and groaned, whereas Porthos just looked at the teethmarks on his palm in a bewildered manner. "Why would you do that?"

"You just said you would kill me!", d'Artagnan retorted angrily, still short of breath. There was some blood on his lips and all in all, he looked rather feral. Time to tame the beast.

"And now you've made us angry. Not the best of plans, my hotheaded friend." Aramis said while he was leisurely loading his weapon and then retreated to the door. "From this distance it's only a matter of which vital organ do I hit first." He took aim, observing d'Artagnan as he shifted in the impossible task to escape.

"Heart?", Porthos suggested nonchalantly, but Aramis shook his head.

"Too swift. Liver perhaps. Or a stomach shot. Death will be almost inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first. Plenty of time to tell us what we want to know."

"Fine!", d'Artagnan burst out. "Doing that shit was Jan's idea anyways."

"Oh, so he was just following orders", Porthos reiterated.

"We better let him go then." Aramis was clearly amused although d'Artagnan purposefully overlooked that fact.

"Yeah, please do that. I didn't actually steal anything, nor did I shoot innocents. In fact, I saved your life, Aramis."

"Yes, we'll cover that in a moment. But you and your comrades killed the two bodyguards in the room. In addition, there is the property damage to consider..."

"During the whole evening, I only fired once", d'Artagnan smirked. "Hand me over to the authorities and by tomorrow I'll be a hero. The media will love the tragic hero angle."

"Nope, we're not doing that. You threatened to kill us and Aramis here isn't the forgiving type." Porthos winked at him.

"Sucks for you, bro", Aramis drawled and moved one hand to the trigger while the other steadied the weapon. "Have a nice afterlife, d'Artagnan."

The condemned clenched his teeth but didn't look away from them even as Aramis slowly pulled down.

"Stop!" It wasn't d'Artagnan who'd yelled, it was Athos. Aramis sighed, murmuring something that sounded like "Spoilsport!". He did open his stance to casually lean against the corrugated iron sheet wall, though. His booted feet were crossed, the dark jeans and brown leather jacket stylishly spotless. All in all, he could have been busy with a photo shoot and not a murder. d'Artagnan let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, unable to take his eyes off his would be killer.

Only when the third man, dressed in an expensive woolen coat, noisily dragged over a second chair did he tear his eyes back to the more imminent threat. Athos meanwhile sat down the wrong way around so that he was facing the prisoner with his hands resting on the backrest of his chair. They sized each other up for a moment until Athos started rattling off the information he'd found in the databases online since Constance had teased the name out of the criminal.

"Charles d'Artagnan, born in Lupiac, Gascony. Father deceased four years ago. No siblings. Has had some run ins with the law during the next year but only minor stuff. Current home address unknown, but they have a lovely picture of you." He showed it to his friends on his phone. Aramis scoffed.

"It says here that you're twenty-one. I would've guessed you no older than fifteen." He was ignored by both d'Artagnan and Athos, who were still locked in a battle of wills of some sort. Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other, shrugged and plopped back down onto the smelly couch.

"Bet you twenty he'll spill the beans in less than ten minutes", Porthos whispered. Aramis watched the pair for the blink of an eye, then smiled. "He seems just as stubborn as our friend. You're on."

In the middle of the floor, Athos decided to break the quiet. "I'm going to ask some very important questions now. It would be wise to answer them truthfully", he stated with his enthralling teacher voice.

"I'm afraid I've never been wise. And let's not even get started on truthful." Unfortunately, the boy seemed immune to Athos' tricks and was apparently back to his obnoxious ways now that his life wasn't directly in peril. Just their luck that the only lead they had to a threat on Anne's life had to be a rogue teenage terrorist as thickheaded as a goat.

"I am going to tell you the truth", Athos said, hands clasped in front of him like a preacher. "Nearly all of your comrades are dead. Thats the truth. The one that left you to die took the time to collect some jewelry but not you. Truth. Moreover, the man your friend randomly shot might not make it through the night. Truth. Both bodyguards are also dead and I think you don't even know what your purpose was in the villa that evening."

"I don't understand", d'Artagnan said earnestly, his face somewhere between intrigued and appalled at the death toll. Porthos, watching the youth closely through the hidden camera that recorded every motion onto their phone screens, had noticed that the boy at least had the decency to look pained by the news he was receiving. Now he was on the defensive. "We weren't going to hurt anybody. We just wanted the money and God knows they have more than enough."

"Wrong", Athos said harshly.

"How so?"

"You weren't there to steal a few trinkets. You were the distraction. You were hired to steal the plans of the Universitätsklinikum of Kiel, which were stored in the cellar because Herr Richter designed the hospital. And the daily news have just received a bomb threat for none other than that building."

"I… I dont..."

"I would explain it to you, but I'm fresh out of crayons, boy", Athos said mercilessly. He let the numerous implications of the information sink in for a few moments before he gripped d'Artagnan by the shoulders and let another deadly cat out of the bag. "And whoever told you Athos murdered your father was lying through their teeth. I am Athos and I wasn't even in the country at the time your father died."

"You're… Athos?", d'Artagnan repeated slowly, understandably blindsided by the revelation. Then he suddenly did the unthinkable: d'Artagnan surged onto his feet, uncoiled his arms from behind him and in the same motion kicked the chair back behind him to fly into the couch. Yelling "Murderer!" at the top of his lungs, he leapt at Athos. The musketeer stepped back just in time to avoid a wildly swinging fist, brought his hands up to catch the roundhouse kick that followed and held on to the leg. Before he could try to throw d'Artagnan, though, the youth lifted his other foot off the ground, too, and used that one to hit the older man straight in the chest. He fell to the floor and landed on his hands, the open handcuff that swung from his right wrist ringing obscenely as it rebounded from the dirty ground.

Once Athos had righted his balance and advanced, the boy was back on his feet. They circled each other warily, mirroring each move, fists drawn up to their faces. Aramis, having caught the flying furniture, grinned. "Remarkable. He's keeping up with Athos even though he's injured."

"Rubbish. He just doesn't want to hurt the lunatic", Porthos replied. Together, they leaned back to enjoy the show, just one hand on the grips of their respective guns in case Athos really got into a bad situation. So far, it seemed as if everything was more or less under control. He'd tried to force the boy into a headlock and by evading the attack, d'Artagnan had exposed his right side, which Athos took advantage of.

"I am not the man you're looking for", he shouted even as his fist landed on the criminal's tender ribs. The boy didn't answer and instead picked up a box from the shelf without looking, chucked it at the opponent and rushed him while he was occupied. Athos let himself be pushed back against the wall next to the door in order to mess up d'Artagnan's stance, then kicked at the leg that was carrying most of the weight as the boy lunged.

For the third time that night, the robber crashed to the floor, but this time he'd hooked his fingers in Athos' coat and took him right down with him. They rolled for a few frantic seconds with d'Artagnan coming out on top. He straddled Athos and using his position, his fist came down on Athos' unprotected face. Less than five inches from the musketeer's face, the movement was abruptly aborted by Porthos, who'd taken hold of d'Artagnan from behind. Now frozen, they could see that the metal from the opened handcuff was wedged between d'Artagnan's fingers to create a short blade, which was aimed straight at Athos' upper neck where the carotid artery was located.

"That could have been your throat!", d'Artagnan growled, still very much enraged and struggling madly, but his strength was no match for Porthos. Athos glanced at the weapon, then tipped against the boy's spine with the tip of his hunting knife to show that he, too, had been prepared to defend himself. "And that could have been your back."

"Clearly, it's a draw", Aramis stated sharply. Apparently, his headache made the Spaniard grouchy. While d'Artagnan was restrained by Porthos, Aramis helped Athos to stand. Their field medic wasn't happy about the situation at all. "What the fuck were you thinking, telling him about your name?"

"He would have found out sooner or later. And I thought he might want to find the real killer someday. Because it sure as hell isn't me", Athos declared, rubbing his chest. Porthos nodded. "Four years ago, we were stationed in Africa. There are a ton of records to prove it." Aramis showed d'Artagnan a photo of them in a desert out of his purse. The time stamp read two days after his father's death.

Hearing that and seeing solid evidence, the fight slowly drained out of d'Artagnan until he resembled a scarecrow in Porthos' hold. "You can let go now", he said quietly, tiredly. Porthos did so. They all exchanged glances while d'Artagnan limped over to the chair and sat back down on it. Hissing quietly, he straightened his posture and leaned back against the plastic. As he crossed his hands behind his back, he was met with a round of astonished faces.

"What? Aren't you going to reattach those?", the boy said, shaking his bracelet. Porthos hummed whereas Athos sighed. "I don't really see the sense in that, judging by how easily you slipped them last time."

"By the way, how did you do it?", Porthos wanted to know. Instead of answering, d'Artagnan showed them the thumb of his left wrist, which he deftly put back into a more natural position after having dislocated it. "If you want somebody to stay put, better close the cuffs real tight so that this maneuver isn't a viable plan B."

"But we were watching your back", Aramis objected.

"Not while everybody was watching my teeth and his hand."

Aramis didn't even look up at the pointing gesture. He carefully grasped d'Artagnan's injured hand and examined the limb. "Not the first time you've done this, is it?" Upon receiving no answer, he proceeded to shackle the boy again, just in case. This time he took care to push the cuffs close until they were resting against skin.

The gears in his mind were rattling, trying to make sense to the puzzle of information they were receiving about the boy. According to him, he'd been able to flee the chair during the whole we're-going-to-kill-you-now show. The fact that he hadn't played his trump card proved something. Fearlessness? Recklessness? Or more understanding of his adversaries than they'd anticipated. Trust? No, that was ridiculous.

"Now that that's settled, let's return to the agenda." Athos was all business again. "There is a hospital full of innocent doctors and patients who need our help. Yours too, d'Artagnan."

"What could I do, I'm nobody. A nobody shackled to a chair god knows where", the boy murmured scornfully. He shivered again, his slightly sweaty skin cooling rapidly in the cold autumn winds. Aramis wanted to hand over his own jacket but knew such a gesture would not be welcome, so he, too, focused on the job.

"You're still close to Kiel. At the Holtenau Aiport, to be exact, so you could be back in town in two minutes and seek the people that are responsible for this mess. Those people that hired you, would you know any of them again?"

"No, they all wore masks."

"Is there any way you could contact them?"

d'Artagnan pondered this for a while, then looked at the men in a very serious manner. "If I help you with this, you'll need to swear that you will help me find my father's killer. I don't care what happens to me after that, let the police have me, whatever. But I need to find that son of a bitch."

"Deal." Athos didn't need to think on it. He'd want to search for the man that had used his name no matter what the outcome of this trip was. d'Artagnan looked him straight in the eye and, seemingly satisfied with what he found there, began talking.

"… We were then hired by a group of anonymous guys, two of them. One was a woman, both were educated. Only Jan met with them personally, but I could hear them through the door. I can't promise I'll find them for you. I can only find Jan. He will lead us to the masterminds, I think I know how to convince him."

"Good", Athos said, nodding while his mind was clearly already at work. Porthos, on the other hand, leisurely glanced at his watch and clapped Aramis on the shoulder with a bright grin lighting up his features. "Pay up, mon ami. He confessed exactly nine minutes after our little side bet!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Gotta love Germany. They're so orderly", Porthos commented out of nowhere. They were sitting in a cute little bakery called Restez!, which actually served decent French croissants and wonderful tiny fruit cakes for breakfast. Next to Porthos, Aramis munched on his third chocolate croissant and because he couldn't articulate anything around a mouthful of heavenly sugar, he waved in a confused manner that made his best friend smile. "It's the cars. Tidy, like links in a chain. Nobody's honking even though it's rush our. They're all waiting for their spot. And the people, all on time and bustling to work like sedulous ants. Look at them."

It was true, they could witness the process quite well from their spot by the window. A seemingly endless line of businessmen and -women walked by, some checking phones or watches yet there wasn't a single citizen creating chaos with a showy car maneuver or a loud shouting match like it might happen in Paris.

"It's the spot. We're right next to a big bank and across the Wilhelm square down that road is the townhall and an insurance building. Everybody who passes here at this hour is either a banker or an insurance manager", d'Artagnan explained quietly. "At the university, for example, the traffic is completely bedlam."

All three musketeers turned to look at their newest ally, surprised by the input since the youth had been very subdued during the early hours of morning. In fact, this was the first time he'd contributed anything to the conversation that was otherwise upheld solely by Aramis and Porthos.

"So you are a college student?", Aramis asked curiously.

"No." Combined with a gruff look, that neatly shut down the chat. Still, Aramis tried again as they paid and left for their white van, d'Artagnan walking in the middle of the pack so that he wouldn't get any ideas. "I was wondering, d'Artagnan...", the Spaniard sidled closer conspiratorially, "Does anybody call you Arty for short?"

"Not twice", d'Artagnan replied and Aramis gulped before he saw the mischief blink in the boy's eyes. There he is, the marksman thought with a small smile, glad to have reached at least partly behind the youth's walls. They needed the young man's cooperation for this job, but Aramis also saw room for much more than that. With the fighting skills and his age considered, somebody like him could go far with the musketeers, providing they could push him back on the right track.

"Alright, noted. d'Artagnan it is." As if on cue, Athos opened the back of the van that was parked in a small side street under a huge leafless skeleton of a tree and called out to them. "d'Artagnan! Have a seat."

They'd soon divested him of his pullover, shirt and undershirt to expose a very bruised chest and stomach. The extend of the damage surprised even Aramis, who'd dealt most of the blows himself. How was the kid walking around with that without giving any signs of discomfort? Or had the silence perhaps been a warning sign they'd missed?

"Are you alright?", Porthos blurted out while Athos continued to rummage around in the interior of the car, seemingly uninterested.

"'M fine."

"Sure you are", Aramis agreed amiably, but he wouldn't relent until they put healing salve onto the bruises and a bandage around d'Artagnan's ribs to stabilize them. The boy didn't wince even once through the process and kept still even afterwards. Aramis was beginning to worry that they might have lost any chance of connection with the youth by treating him so roughly last night until d'Artagnan suddenly pushed his bangs out of his face to address them in an almost accusing voice. "Why are you doing all this? You have no reason to patch me up. You had no reason to buy me breakfast! Or chat like we're old friends or something."

"What were you expecting?", Athos asked flatly while the other two were still staring as if hit by a moving car. d'Artagnan shrugged, exposing vulnerability with a fierceness that impressed all of them. "I don't know. A cage maybe. Or a bullet in the back. Certainly not pain pills and cake."

Athos placed one hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezed slightly. "No matter your past misdeeds, for now you're one of us. And we take care of our own."

"One for all..."

"And all for one!", Aramis finished Porthos statement. They grinned at each other and at d'Artagnan, who smiled back uncertainly after a moment. "Thanks, I guess."

As coincidence would have it, the boy's outburst of emotion had attracted attention on the other side of the street and a middle aged man wandered by. He took one look at the three muscular men that were obviously cornering a beaten up teenager and took out his phone. "Hey, lassen Sie den Jungen in Ruhe! Ich rufe die Polizei!"

The man was threatening to call the cops on them for harassing d'Artagnan. This unforeseen complication prompted the musketeers to glance at one another uncomfortably. Yes, they were protected by diplomatic immunity, but Anne was at the hotel. Moreover, kidnapping and battery were serious charges and filling out forms all day at a police station would put a considerable dent into their timetable – the bombing was supposed to happen sometime during the next 48 hours. Thankfully, d'Artagnan grinned at the concerned Kieler with his most roguish charm.

"Moin!", he greeted with the northern German slang for hello. "Thank you, sir, but I'm fine." He grinned and leaned back against the van's inside right next to Athos' legs, the picture of easy carelessness. "I'm with my friends."

"Okay, if you say so...", the man replied with a heavy accent and waved goodbye at them, once again returning to the nine to five hamster wheel of workdays. Once he was out of sight, Porthos exhaled loudly. Aramis noticed that d'Artagnan shifted a little further away from Athos, not quite as relaxed as he'd played.

"Let's get you wired up", the Spaniard announced cheerfully. Athos pulled out a small, skin colored ear piece and a microphone that was pinned over the bandages on the kid's chest. "It transmits to us. Here's your phone. Updated with a GPS tracker amongst other things." Their leader managed to make the explanation sound almost like a threat, which Aramis countered with an annoyed eye roll. "You don't have to do this. It's Musketeer business."

"I can handle it", d'Artagnan promised even more determined now that he was being offered a way out.

"You'll be absolutely fine. Just walk in, get the information, walk out. Porthos will be close every step of the way", Aramis agreed. Even though Porthos nodded, d'Artagnan focused on the other two bodyguards. His brows furrowed in distrust.

"Where will you two be?"

"Following up leads. We've got a few witnesses to interview, boring stuff mostly." Aramis smiled indulgently, put on his shades although the clouds were still heavy with rain, and began to walk to their second car, a Mercedes limousine with tinted windows in the back. "I sometimes get the feeling those women just want to see me again."

"Womanizer", Athos commented without any malice. They leaned against the car for a moment and watched Porthos converse with a nervous d'Artagnan until Athos suddenly sighed. "I still think one of us should do it. He's so damn young and a criminal on top of that."

"Jan would never trust a king's musketeer. It has to be somebody he knew."

"He is a Gascon farm boy. Promising, but raw. It's too much at stake", Athos voiced his sorrows, turning halfway around so that he could face Aramis. The marksman shrugged in an unconcerned manner. "Well, he has to prove himself some time if he's going to be one of us. So why not now?"

This train of thought actually surprised Athos, whose blue green eyes widened ever so slightly in his otherwise unreadable face. "Do you truly think he has it in him? How can you stand him? He's arrogant, reckless, impatient..."

"And an eavesdropper. I also interrupt a lot."

Aramis laughed out loud as he heard d'Artagnan's comment, whereas Athos winced with his back still turned to the brash youth. "We should get going", he told Aramis and entered the car without acknowledging the robber. They proceeded to drive off while d'Artagnan and Porthos, returned from the inside of the van, watched on.

"Ready to do your part?", Porthos asked as soon as they were out of sight, one of his melon sized hands resting on the kid's back as if to steady – or provide a little push, if necessary. d'Artagnan straightened under the attention. "Yeah, let's do this."

It was dim inside the wash saloon on the other side of the Wilhelm square and d'Artagnan couldn't figure out why Jan loved to spend his time here. A mother with a baby was reading a book on parenting while her clothes turned round and round and her child watched on, utterly fascinated like only three-year-olds can be. The clerk seemed even more transfixed by the magazine he'd laid out in front of him. Better not let the kid see that one, d'Artagnan thought as he entered.

Jan was already there, a big man with an unruly blond beard and a rock band t-shirt that hugged his belly a little too tightly. Still, he jumped to his feet like a deranged jack-in-the-box as soon as he saw his accomplice. "You've got five seconds to explain what you're doing here before I blow your brains into the next street. How did you get away?" He pressed d'Artagnan into the wall next to the doors.

"What do you think I'm doing here? I'm visiting my mistress", d'Artagnan hissed back, opting for anger and sarcasm in order to play his part. "I had to fight my way out after you left me to the wolves, asshole."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." While Jan had become less agitated and let go of his former friend, d'Artagnan found it hard to suppress his fury.

"Sorry? Is that it?" Inadvertently, he'd gotten louder until he was nearly screaming at his old friend. Maybe this hadn't been the plan, maybe he ought to play nice, but shit! That guy had left him in troubled waters without so much as a goodbye.

"Fuck you, Jan!"

"Oi! Watch your language", the clerk interrupted, pointing at the child in front of the only running machine. As d'Artagnan took a deep breath and nodded, Jan motioned for him to sit. "Want some beer?" Was that supposed to be a peace offer?

"No! It's not even noon."

"Alright, calm down, Hulk."

"No beer inside the wash saloon", the clerk supplied unhelpfully. His eyes were still glued to the naked women on the poster on his desk. d'Artagnan lowered his voice so that there would be no eavesdroppers. "I nearly didn't get out of there alive. See my black eye? That's your fault. You owe me."

"Yeah, dude, that was so insane in there! Just like Call of Duty, dontcha think? I just had to split before things turned too real", Jan complained. d'Artagnan simply stared, amazed by the sheer stupidity of the comment. "You killed three people, Jan. And left me to take the fall for it." Didn't he get it? Murder. Real life murder! But the worst part was that Jan didn't look concerned at all. He fell quiet and after a moment, he pulled something green from his pocket that smelled suspiciously like weed. "Wanna smoke?"

"No!"

"No ganja inside the..."

"Yeah, we know", d'Artagnan interrupted the clerk. "Excuse my friend, he's being himself today."

"Just find some other place to hang out, okay?"

"Yes, absolutely." d'Artagnan stood, grabbed Jan by the collar of his shirt and manhandled him outside wordlessly. They leaned against the window when the Gascon decided to put his cards on the table. "Look, I heard one of them say something about hospital plans? If our employer didn't want anybody to know they'd been stolen, we have a problem. We need to set up a meeting, face to face."

"You're not mad about that little deception?"

"No, but if the information is good, I'll get a cut, okay?" After all he'd just heard inside the shop, d'Artagnan had trouble to pretend he was still interested in dealing with this piece of garbage. Luckily, Jan seemed to understand greed very well.

"Ya think we can cash out again? Sure, I'll give him a call." Tense minutes followed during which Jan convinced whoever was on the other end of the line that meeting in person was the best way to do this. "He also wants you to tell him everything about the bodyguards that you remember."

"No biggie", d'Artagnan said and imitating Jan's slang, who grinned, put the phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and strolled up to his rust-bucket of a car. "Hop in!"

"Where are we going?", d'Artagnan asked, mostly for Porthos' convenience.

"Kaltenhof."

"The marshes?"

"Yup."

"Lovely."

* * *

During the ride, Aramis' confidence in d'Artagnan had morphed into worry. Athos, walking purposefully towards the Richter's estate, tried to ease his friend's mind in his usual direct manner.

"He chose to take the risk. There was nothing we could have done."

"We could have stopped him", Aramis interjected, but Athos wasn't done. He looked at the Spaniard seriously, saying: "Our job now is to protect the people in that hospital. When that's done, we can worry about d'Artagnan."

Then he pressed the button on the buzzer of their witness' gateway. The ring sounded like a church bell. Ding-dong-ding-dong. Kind of pretty, but also kind of presumptuous. All in all, it fit in perfectly in Düsternbrook between the old and new money, old and new trees that were lining the roads and the view of the new streets and old Kiel Canal. The only disadvantage that Athos could see was the fact that Aramis had pushed the dainty button in front of the iron gates to the estate thrice now and nobody was answering.

"Shall I try again?"

"No." Athos was giving the house a once-over. Something about the villa wasn't right, and it weren't the creepy pumpkins of the neighbors. The windows! There should have been six broken widows looking out towards the road, yet there wasn't a crack in sight. Perfect, immaculate villa. How?

"Aramis, we need to take a closer look", he informed his comrade, who'd followed the glance and dug a hand through his hair in confusion.

"Those rich Germans surely are extremely diligent. But are you sure about jumping the fence? Curiosity killed the cat, my friend."

"Ignorance killed the cat. Curiosity was framed", Athos answered dryly. Without further discussion, he gripped the pillar at the end of the gates and pulled himself up and over to land on the other side of the wall that surrounded the garden. Aramis followed suit and together they walked up to the house at a relaxed pace. Things quickly became more frantic, though, as two loud "Woof!" sounds sounded and turned into excited barking.

"I hate dogs", Athos said grimly and started running towards the entrance while the sounds behind them got louder.

"I always knew you were secretly a cat person!", Aramis quipped and easily kept pace. Nevertheless, the dogs were gaining on the two men and soon, they could see a German shepherd and a smaller white and brown dog race after them like chasing a Frisbee in a park.

Aramis reached the door a heartbeat earlier than Athos and started banging on it wildly. "Open up, open up!"

* * *

The terrorist looked exactly like one would imagine a terrorist, or at least how they were displayed in western movies, d'Artagnan thought as he approached the three men in the parking lot in front of the Kaltenhofer marshes with Jan in tow. The sun had broken through the clouds and cicadas were singing, providing a weird soundtrack for the events.

"Good morning, Jan Maarsten", the terrorist greeted but didn't offer to shake their hands. His long black coat hid his hands, rendering his tall figure even more imposing than the thick beard and unruly black hair already had beforehand. He looked a little like Porthos but lacked the warmth, d'Artagnan decided, while Jan stumbled through introductions. He didn't name any of their sinister employers.

"So, Charles, what else do you remember about the bodyguards who told you about the hospital plans?" The man asked with a deep and scratchy voice as if he'd been a smoker for thirty years. As a man of about forty years, d'Artagnan hoped that wasn't the case.

"There were three. French. Liked to talk, threatened to kill me. They hit me pretty hard", d'Artagnan answered and tried to look clueless. Inconveniently, his nerves suddenly returned in full force, causing him to swallow and tense a little. Like a hawk, Mr. Boss Terrorist jumped.

"Are you certain you're not holding back, Charlie? My friend Felix thinks it was wrong to invite you here. Are we certain he's truly one of us?", he wanted to know and glanced at his comrades. A woman with her hood covering most of her face seemed dissatisfied in particular. She balled her fists, one of which was cut on the inside. The blond man next to her stepped forward and towered over the boys, especially d'Artagnan.

"Are you a traitor?"

"I'm a wanted man on the run. Nothing else. Are we done here?"

"Not quite." And that meant a full twenty minutes of interrogation before they finally let him go. d'Artagnan told half-truths whenever possible and lied when necessary, tricked and cheated as best as he knew how. Ultimately, the man seemed happy.

"Go." They waved as if chasing off a fly and all of them except the leader began to type or talk on their phones in hushed voices, probably relaying the new information.

"Fine!" He pretended to be pissed about not receiving a reward when all he wanted to do was kill them for what they were planning to inflict on helpless people. Venting some of his anger at Jan, he declined the ride home in the most impolite words he could think of and waited for Porthos to pick him up. The thought of tearing off the surveillance gear beneath his shirt, of running and disappearing into the woods flitted by. d'Artagnan steadfastly ignored it.

* * *

Click. Suddenly, Athos and Aramis found themselves meeting an old man dressed in a black suit and gloves, obviously a butler of some sort. The man seemed equally surprised to see them. "Yes, how can I help? Have you forgotten… Frieda! Schnitzel, Platz!" He glowered at the dogs, which sat like well raised animals after being given the order to stand down.

"I'm sorry, who are you?", the butler asked in German. Athos answered that they had been guests at the meet and greet yesterday and the man nodded, a friendly smile on his face.

"Frenchmen?", he inquired with a wide grin on his face that exposed a missing teeth in the back. "I thought you were with the window crew for a moment, but now I can hear it in your voice that you must be French!"

"Yes."

"Ah, that explains it. Frieda doesn't like the French." He patted the smaller dog lovingly while he showed them inside. "Our Shepherd Schnitzel is the docile one. If you ask me, Frieda has a bit of a mean streak, but the mistress adores her." He explained over his shoulder, shrugged in a what-can-you-do-gesture and asked for their coats. After hanging them and telling them that his name was Mirco and he loved Frenchmen, he politely asked them to wait in the foyer.

"The mistress is still asleep after the harrowing experience yesterday. If you'll please wait a few minutes, I'll wake her for you."

He was gone and back before Aramis could say anything about the dog situation, even though Athos could see the marksman was itching to comment.

"She'll be with you shortly. In the mean time… do you know why French people don't eat snails?", Mirco said, grinning again like a dimwit. Aramis smiled, crossing his boots in front of him on the checkered tiles. "Because we don't like fast food."

"Well done, Mr…?"

"Aramis is fine."

"Ah, Mr. Aramis." Mirco nodded knowingly and Athos wondered whether the butler had the whole guest list of the meeting memorized. Probably not, the man didn't look all that bright. His first impression only worsened as he and Aramis started to get into it.

"How do you keep a Frenchman from crashing your party?"

"You put up a sign that says 'no nudity'."

"Yes, entirely correct, Mr. Aramis. What is the Guillotine?"

"A French chopping center."

"And did you hear about the man who jumped into the river in Paris?"

"Yes, he was declared to be in Seine."

"Which ghost was president of France?"

"Charles de Ghoul."

"Why..." Athos stopped listening at that point. Instead, he waited for any sounds from upstairs that would herald Frau Richter's appearance. After another two minutes of really bad puns and silence on the upper levels of the house, Mirco's phone began to ring and he excused himself.

"Well, that was fun", Aramis said once the man was out of earshot.

"Children, I'm working with children", Athos complained, but he knew Aramis wasn't that shallow and waited for the reveal.

"He's around sixty, an extrovert and does a lot of sports although he has a bad back. He doesn't come from money. And, most importantly, he's truly relaxed. Either he's a war veteran or he hasn't seen the bodies yesterday."

Athos thought about it for a moment. He couldn't remember where the butler had been during the confrontation yesterday, so perhaps Aramis' deductions were right. They had no time to discuss them, however, because Mirco returned with a tray that was overflowing with candy, two cups of steaming tea and coffee each and, apparently, cucumber sandwiches. "Tea, messieurs?"

* * *

"It's Richter!", Porthos suddenly exclaimed from behind the wheel of the van. d'Artagnan, startled by the volume of the statement more than anything else, leaned back into the car seat to relieve some of the pain in his ribs.

"Didn't you tell me that Jan shot Mr. Richter? He can't be a zombie terrorist."

"Not him! Her! The woman with the cut on her hand has to be Frau Richter. She cut herself on a piece of glass when she wanted to kill you."

"Oh." d'Artagnan needed a moment to process that, then realization hit him like a load of icy water to the face. "Athos and Aramis might be visiting Richter right about now. Fuck."

"And their damn phones are turned off, I can't reach them", Porthos added with a voice like a thunderstorm. A vein in his neck pulsed, thus betrayed his pent-up tension.

"Fuck", d'Artagnan repeated tonelessly. They were both so deeply immersed into their thoughts that they didn't see the truck behind them until it rammed them off the road.

* * *

"What does a frog in France eat?"

"I… don't know." Aramis had trouble concentrating. After being pushed around by d'Artagnan and receiving a minor concussion from the gun-whipping last night and on top of that getting no sleep at all, he was beyond tired. Even his eyesight seemed to focus and unfocus irregularly.

Next to him, Athos put down his cup of tea with little more force than needed. "Where is our hostess?", he inquired and was that a slur? Athos never slurred except when exceedingly drunk. In some part of Aramis' mind, red warning lights turned on as Mirco the butler observed them with what he'd usually call a mean grin.

"Are you feeling alright, messieurs?"

"Not quite", Athos admitted, "I might have..." He tried to stand by bracing himself on the armrest of the chair he was residing on but missed. Stumbled. Slid down the wall. Didn't get up again. Aramis saw only snapshots of the whole thing, each one between a longer blink. His eyelids were closing of their own volition. No! Run! Get out! The voice of alarm shrieked at him and Aramis tried to do as commanded. He bit his tongue until it bled so that the pain would keep him awake and made it to a standing position.

"Schnitzel!", Mirco snapped and whoops, where did the dog come from? Aramis tripped and suddenly he was lying next to Athos. The butler took a small cloth out of his back pocket and wiped away some imaginary stain on the floor. His mad grin chased Aramis into the world of dreams as well as the last sentence the man uttered: "No one outwits Frau Richter!"

* * *

 **A/N** : Dun dun duuuun. What do you think? Too mean?  
As you might have noticed, this chapter was a bit of a filler chapter. A bit of getting to know each other, a bit of silliness and a info about the town and setting things up for the finale. The next one will be more intense, I promise! But any ideas and constructive criticism are welcome, too.  
And most of all: Thanks for the reviews, you guys rock! I especially loved that so many of you spotted the quotes!

at LV: Thanks so much for the lovely compliment and your review! I really appreciate it.

at Jmp: Yep, weaving in the quotes and mixing it with my own stuff is so much fun about this AU. I'm glad you like it so far.

at Doubtful Guest: Thank you for leaving a review and thanks for the compliment. I had a lot of fun writing Porthos in this chapter.

at Justaguest: Yay, you spotted the quotes - and you're right, they're from ep.1. I'm happy you like my take on it. Thanks!

 ** _German translations:_**

 _Hey, lassen Sie den Jungen in Ruhe! Ich rufe die Polizei! - Hey, leave the boy alone. I'm calling the police!_

 _Kieler - a citizen of Kiel_

 _Moin - northern German slang for hello_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**

 **at WelshEssex:** Thanks so much for reviewing! I'm happy that you enjoy my story and the universe and even more happy that you spotted what Aramis did there. Athos isn't convinced yet, but there's still some action and conversation to come, so he might change his mind. ;)

 **at Justaguest:** Jep, you're 100% right, I was quoting episode two. Thanks for the feedback on the characters, I really love that. And your Schnitzel comment made me laugh so hard! Absolutely right again.

 **at LV:** Hey thank you so much for leaving a review! And thanks even more for the compliment! ;) I'm glad you like my AU, it's the first one I've ever written.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

It's one thing to wake up to the beats of German techno. Too loud, too much, music makes your head ring like a bell, but you might be able to fix it with a few strong coffees. It's another thing entirely to wake up in a standing position, hands tied behind your back with something that cuts into your flesh. Too much disorientation, too much pain, fear makes your heart beat like a drum. That's definitely not fixable with a few strong coffees.

Your brain boots back up after escaping the drug induced shutdown. First question after cataloging the various aches and error messages: What's keeping you from falling down? What's holding you up? Oh, that would be the noose around your neck.

That realization sure wakes you up better than a bucket of cold water or even the thundering bass of Zedd's newest hit. Athos blinked and struggled on instinct, still caught somewhere between dream and real life nightmare. He felt the hands on his body only when they released him and was just aware enough to stabilize his feet on the plastic chair before could fall off and strangulate himself.

Groaning wordlessly, he stood and let his head fall back to relieve the pressure beneath his chin and let gravity push the damp hair out of his face. His sight cleared while he stared at the ceiling. White, about three meters above him. There were pipe and light emanating from dirty neon tubes in two corners of the room which measured less than thirty square feet. Athos took in all the information in less than a second before his blue-green gaze was compelled towards the steel cable which lead from his own neck up to the ceiling. As thick as a finger, it coiled around a winch before it snaked its way back down to…

"Shit! Aramis? Aramis, wake up, wake up, brother. Hey!" His steady calm was lost the moment he saw Mirco the butler and another henchman tow his friend along like a rag doll. Aramis was still out like a light and bleeding slightly from a nick somewhere beneath his hairline. His hands were tied with copper wire of all things, yet Athos didn't take the time to wonder about the strange choice of binding. He yelled again, desperately trying to wake Aramis as long as their sniper would still have a chance to fight back.

"Get your fucking hands off him." Aramis was clearly pulling a Sleeping Beauty on them, so Athos switched his attention to Mirco and practically growled at him. His fists were balled tightly, shoulders rigid with tension as Athos strained methodically against the wire around his own wrists. He could feel a cool wetness on the surrounding skin and knew he was bleeding, but so what?

"Aramis!"

As they dragged the limp body of his friend over to the where a third goon with a mustache was forming another head-sized loop on the cable, Athos knew where this was going. They were maneuvering Aramis onto a banana crate that was turned sideways to provide more hight. Even from Athos' perspective over his shoulder it looked like a damn wobbly perch, not to mention the fact that Aramis wouldn't be balancing for fun.

"Damn you, stop!"

Perhaps this outcry finally raised Aramis. And one could fault his laziness on off-duty days, but confronted with a hostile environment, he came to his senses a lot quicker than Athos had. Volatile brown eyes snapped open the same instance his booted feet kicked out, catching the fat henchman in the chin. The other one dropped Aramis, who fell onto his back and thus his hands, causing him to scream. Nevertheless, he wasn't out for the count yet and used his position to follow up the first kick with a second one to the crown jewels. Fat guy fell like a whimpering German oak.

Mirco and goon number three with the mustache were snapping out of their astonishment while Aramis nimbly leaped to his feet. The marksman surveyed his surroundings quickly, matching the tension in his friends' body as soon as he saw him strung up like an unfortunate marionette. Despite the tiny change to his posture, Aramis' look purposefully didn't linger on his friend, instead focusing all the attention on himself with a few inventive curses and kicks.

Mustache was hit in the stomach when he didn't back up fast enough, but Mirco blocked the kick aimed at his knees. Aramis brows were knit in grim concentration, his confident smile lost for the moment as sweat and blood mingled on his skin. Mirco and the Musketeer exchanged a few blows and Aramis had to step back repeatedly, unable to defend himself without the use of his hands.

Meanwhile, Athos watched carefully, not daring to move since the noose was wound around a hook in the wall so that it might still pull tight if he tried to step down from the damn chair. Nonetheless, he saw his chance to help. "Right foot!", he shouted when Mirco overextended himself, thereby ruining his balance.

Aramis struck like an arrow, smashed the right ankle and effectively incapacitated the evil butler because the old man crashed right onto his back. I hope that hurts, you bastard, Athos thought. He allowed a breath to escape his body, maybe this was it.

A blade being held next to his femoral artery promptly convinced him otherwise. Looking down, he saw Frau Richter standing right next to his leg with a kitchen knife. Where had that storming woman come from? She must have been hiding behind the few dark green barrels to the left.

"Fuck me", Athos cursed quietly, hating to be the leverage. In return, Frau Richter smiled at Aramis.

"You left your King unprotected. Checkmate."

Neither of the Musketeers replied. Aramis slowly straightened and left Mirco enough room to get up. All the while, their sharp gazes rested on the woman and the gleaming knife's edge.

"I was hoping you'd wake. I wouldn't want you to miss the high point of our acquaintance", she said in an arrogant manner.

"Where are we?", Athos inquired, wanting more than anything to distract the villain a while longer. Give Aramis some time to figure this bloody mess out. God knows I'm useless right now.

"In the tunnels. They run from the hospital towards a backup generator", Richter explained, then quickly cut through Athos' black jeans to draw a thin line of red. "Enough with the chitchat. Monsieur Aramis, if you'd please step onto the crate?"

"And if I don't?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Instead of a longer answer, more blood welled up from the cut. Not deep enough yet to be an issue, but it coaxed a hiss from the otherwise silent bargaining chip named Athos.

"No." Apparently, Aramis didn't want to risk too much, and although Athos would have liked to scream at him to save himself, he knew it'd be in vain. Damn that hero complex.

"Up."

"Fine." In less than a minute, Aramis stood back to back with Athos, caught in the same predicament with the steel cable. Moreover, since the two loops were directly connected and slightly too short, Athos was forced onto his toes in an effort to allow Aramis to stand safely on the rickety surface of the empty fruit crate. Richter still hadn't lost the fine smile she wore above her feminine three piece suit, but at least she'd turned down the music somewhat.

"Helps me work", she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She returned to the green barrels for a few moments until she dusted off her impeccable purple blazer and faced the two Musketeers with a sneer. "Welcome to my glorious enterprise. We're going to build a new world order, starting today. I'm so glad you could be part of it!"

"Is she being sarcastic?", Aramis murmured in a stage whisper, his back to the conversation since Richter faced Athos. Uncharacteristically, Aramis hadn't tried to get a look.

Athos ignored the jibe and offered one on his own. "The pleasure is all yours, Frau Richter."

"Oh, don't be so glum. After all, you're going to be the ones to ignite the spark that'll carry us into the new world. At exactly the moment one of you two falters, the pressure on the winch will light the fuse that'll explode the powder stored in those barrels." Now that she mentioned it, Athos could see a white cord running from the winch towards the barrels.

"Blowing us to pieces", Athos completed the thought. Richter shrugged light-heartedly.

"Most certainly, but that's not the main purpose of the exercise."

"Then what is?" He was trying not to scream at her, but it was getting harder by the second. His arms and shoulders hurt from the unnatural position, the muscles in his legs already burned from the exertion and his neck… well, let's just say he'd be having a very sore throat once this was over. If they even managed to get out without exploding. Fear crawled up his spine, but Athos suppressed the emotion ruthlessly.

"So what was the plan before we showed up?"

"We planned to strike tomorrow at eleven when the clock chimes. Three men in the ER crowd with bombs. Everyone would have been dead before a quarter past. This time tomorrow my name will live forever. Your's too."

"Fantastic, my dream come true", Aramis commented. Athos smirked even though his brother couldn't see it.

"Was it all your idea? What about killing your husband?" The Musketeer wanted to know with serious eyes that were cutting through her defenses. Richter's face lost the superior expression, her lips thinned and her jaw clenched. Obviously, this was a weak spot, so Athos naturally went for it. "You killed him", he intoned with a deep preacher voice.

"I loved him", she replied, sounding small and sad. Mirco stepped up next to her, laid an arm around her shaking shoulders. "He died for the cause. He will be forever remembered."

"That won't bring him back to life either", Aramis needled from the back, shocked when Richter screamed. "Be quiet, shut up!" and drove the kitchen knife into the Musketeer's thigh she could reach – Athos' thigh.

Agony hit him like a second bodily blow. Athos bit his tongue, swayed dangerously and caught his weight on the one good leg. The winch squeaked as the cable now pulled Aramis onto his toes. Worry laced the sniper's tone as he tried to glance at Athos. "What? What did I… aw, shit."

"… be fine", Athos tried to reassure him through clenched teeth. Judging from Aramis' expression, it didn't work all that well. However, the interaction obviously brought joy to their captors.

"We'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your short life. I hope it's miserable", Frau Richter stated happily, checked one last time on the contraption behind the crates where presumably the bomb rested and strolled towards the door on Aramis' side of the room.

"Wait!", Athos tried, searching for a last lifeline to keep them from a gruesome death. As the door closed behind a disinterested Richter, limping Mirco and henchmen, Athos swore. Aramis chuckled.

"Most people would give up after their captors impale their leg, y'know."

"Most people also wouldn't try to confront a terrorist, but here we are."

"True."

"Did you hear that beeping sound?", Athos inquired with a sense of dread as Aramis nodded, then whimpered quietly in pain or something else. "There's explosives at the door. A green light turned on and beeped when the door and the circuit closed."

They stayed quiet after that uncomfortable revelation for a while, Athos beginning to worry as he noticed the sheen of perspiration on Aramis' skin and his unusual pallor. His irony was still unharmed, though, as he suddenly remarked: "I don't like this. I've never been unpopular before."

"Try trading places with me." The knife handle was still sticking out of his leg, seemingly pulsing with each heartbeat.

"You're used to it. I'm more of a romantic hero type." That actually made Athos smile, both because of the truth it carried and the audacity to voice it in this situation. Agreeing that banter was better than open desperation, he hopped the bandwagon.

"For the record, I blame you."

"What? Visiting Richter's estate was your idea!"

"Well, you should've talked me out of it!" Athos felt Aramis' body tremble with laughter, but the marksman didn't answer, which made the knot in his friend's stomach tighten. "Really, Aramis, are you okay?"

"'m not feeling so well."

"Head?"

"Yeah. Nausea, too."

"Dizziness?"

"Yep."

"Shit."

"Yep." The chipper tone sounded forced, another sign that Aramis was far from okay. Athos swallowed painfully against the steel cable.

"Then we better get out of here fast."

"Yes. But first it's my turn. How much blood are you losing?"

"Not much." Honestly, he couldn't tell. Looking down hurt and what good would it do to see a spreading red stain on the dark cloth? Instead he turned his attention to Aramis' bindings. The copper wire had to have endings that could be unwound, right? But for the life of him, he could not find one. Impatient fingers brushed his search aside.

"Let me", Aramis said while he let his head fall back onto Athos' shoulder. Beneath them, the crate creaked. Warm hands slid over Athos' arms, around the wire, pulling here and there without success. A low, vicious curse slipped from the Spaniard's lips as he slipped again and again in his brother's blood.

"I think they're welded together. That bitch!" Aramis anger was burning, but it was a subdued fire. He cursed again, pulling his fingers back.

"What happened?" It wasn't like him to give up that fast. Or give up at all, really.

"I broke a nail", Aramis confessed, sounding slightly sheepish.

"Seriously? After all that's happened, you're upset over a broken nail?"

Aramis laughed, shifting his weight again to give Athos more leeway. "Have you ever broken a nail, Athos? 'Cause it fucking hurts."

The adressed didn't reply, knowing Aramis wouldn't mind. They lapsed into silence again, the mood shifting to somber as both their breathing patterns got more labored.

"It'd be a good time for Porthos to come and bust us out, dontcha think?", Aramis remarked after a while. Athos couldn't agree more, although he suspected that their comrade had his own obstacles laid out for him.

"What if he doesn't make it in time? Or if he triggers the trap at the door?", Aramis thoughts continued down the dark alley. Athos shrugged, voice rough like gravel as he answered.

"Bang."

* * *

"d'Artagnan!"

"d'Artagnan!"

"C'mon, boy, don't you be dead."

"Wach auf! No… that wasn't right, was it? Damn, my German ain't that good."

"d'Artagnan."

"Arty!"

"Don't… call me… Arty." The boy in question pried his eyes open, his sense of vertigo so strong that he felt he might puke. His chest was throbbing even worse than before. Before?

"We crashed!"

"Aye, and what a crash it was", Porthos replied almost dreamily. d'Artagnan looked down, only now noticing that Porthos was below him and not next to him like before. Before the car crash. Their van was lying sideways.

"Verdammte Axt!", d'Artagnan said, absurdly glad they'd been wearing their seatbelts. Nonetheless, Porthos didn't look so great and neither did d'Artagnan feel like waltzing out of here. Or moving in general. In contrast, Porthos seemed to be in a hurry.

"d'Artagnan! Don't ya fall back asleep! I need your help." The low rumble of a voice touched something inside him, a nerve that prompted his blood to run a little faster, a little more awareness creeping in. His hands searched for the belt release buckle while his legs braced him against the dashboard.

"Gimme a sec." Click. The belt gave and suddenly he needed to press himself against the seat or risk falling right on top of Porthos. Fortunately, d'Artagnan was a graceful climber and managed to open the door above him.

"Be right there." Reaching up and out, the youth levered his aching body out of the dented carcass of the car. The damage was immense, part of their car shorn off and metal scattered for at least a hundred meters. The smell of burnt tires and gasoline turned the air acrid, but contrary to popular opinion, cars don't explode and d'Artagnan didn't worry about a fire either. However, there was still a chance that the perpetrators might return. With a properly running brain, he understood why Porthos heeded caution.

"Can you get out?", he asked when his own feet hit the tarmac. Miraculously, d'Artagnan was mostly unharmed and landed like a cat. Apart from his ribs and a throbbing skull, he felt fine. Porthos, on the other hand, had abrasions all over his left side where the driver's window was shredded. Additionally, he still hadn't moved much. Without another thought, d'Artagnan kicked a hole into the windshield and, pulling sleeves over his palms, bent the lower part away from the car so that he could reach inside.

"Porthos?"

"I… I ain't goin' anywhere, pup." Yeah, d'Artagnan could see that. The door was bent inside like a crushed coca cola can, wedging Porthos' leg in between its folds. He was stuck alright. At a loss, the boy stared at the giant with a helpless frown. Porthos' hands were curled around the steering wheel and d'Artagnan imagined he must be in a lot of pain, yet his voice was gentle as he instructed d'Artagnan to lean inside and check the foot for a pulse.

"Got one."

"Good. There's also a gun in an ankle holster. Take it."

"What?"

"You 'eard me. Take it." Grasping it, he held the weapon up for everyone to see. Porthos nodded even as he made no move to retrieve it. Instead, his eyes flicked back down again.

"The holster, too."

"Why?"

"Aramis and Athos are in trouble." He didn't say anything else and after a heartbeat, d'Artagnan realized that nothing else needed to be said. Aramis and Athos were in trouble and Porthos couldn't help them, so he was arming the one who could. And that one was him, d'Artagnan.

"I… I can't… I don't even know you guys. I'm a criminal, for god's sake!" At which point Porthos' strong hands landed on his shoulders, reassuringly warm and alive. His dark eyes seemed to see right into the depths of his soul.

"Do you want to be a criminal? This is your chance to be somethin' else, pup."

Slowly, d'Artagnan nodded. They shared an understanding in that moment, the pinned tall Musketeer and the young criminal outside on his knees. Both battered but far from broken.

"Take my phone. It has a tracking app on it."

"I won't let you down", d'Artagnan promised. It felt right to say it. Porthos smiled at him.

"Go. And d'Artagnan?"

"Yeah?"

"Once you're off the road and out of sight, call an ambulance, will ya?"

"Will do", d'Artagnan replied with a grin, glad that the dramatic mood had fled.

After buckling on the handgun, d'Artagnan rose and began to walk towards the next village, trying and failing not to look back with doubt in his mind. What right did that man have to rope him into this catastrophe in the making? What right did he have to make d'Artagnan abandon his me-myself-and-I philosophy that had worked so well in the past? Was it truly a good idea to trust these men and willingly follow them into danger? Well, he was about to find out.

* * *

 ** _German translations:_**

 _Wach auf! - Wake up!_

 _Verdammte Axt! - Exclamation of surprise, like "What the hell?" or "Oh shit!"_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: **Hello! Nice to see you again**.

In case you were wondering: Yes, I am still alive. I do hope that most of you are still alive and are still reading Musketeer fanfic as well. Sorry for the long absence, life has been keeping me extremely busy, but maybe you can forgive me?

Feel free to leave wishes for the next and (perhaps) last chapter in the comment section below. And feedback would be greatly appreciated!

 **at WelshEssex:** Yep, the boys are definitely in a pickle. I had the same thought about d'Artagnan, though - read on to see how I tried to incorporate it into the story. ;)

 **at Chris:** I'm glad you liked it so far! And thanks a lot for the compliment. What do you think about this chapter?

Here comes the next chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 5 **

"Come closer."

Their bodies were already pressed against each other, but he obeyed, feeling Aramis' hands move down his pants. He groaned and heard the sentiment echoed in his partner's panted exclamation.

"Just a little more… aah!"

"Did… you… get it?"

"Not quite. Let me try again. Pull your foot a little higher so that I can get a little deeper..."

"Ara...mis."

"Nearly there!"

"Move..."

"Just one more push!"

"Would you… please... hurry up a little?"

"No, I just need you – dammit."

"I'm sorry."

"Ah, shit. I was so close."

"I couldn't… hold it… any longer."

"It's not your fault, Athos."

The man behind him exhaled loudly but didn't answer, letting sweaty bangs obscure his eyes. Pale skin glistened beneath the harsh neon lights as he tried to stabilize his breathing and, more importantly, his body.

"Athos? Athos, are you alright?"

Even though Athos had put his foot back down onto the chair, he wobbled precariously, causing the steel cable to cut into their necks in irregular intervals. In between breathless pauses, Aramis swore colorfully in Spanish. "I nearly had my fingertips on it."

"If wishes were horses..."

"Well, it's your own fault the hunting knife's hidden in the boot of your injured leg." The sniper's voice was meant to be teasing but came out thinner than he'd hoped, worn out by pain and a sprinkling of fear. Likewise, he could hear the strain in Athos' voice, which rendered the conversation a flickering ghostly imitation of their usual banter.

"Oh, so we're playing… the blame game… again?"

"Don't be a crybaby, Athos."

"I… wasn't."

No, he really wasn't. In fact, he'd been holding on to consciousness like a drowning man to a lifeboat - with unerring tenacity. On top of that, he'd instigated their efforts to escape this death trap by mentioning the concealed weapon in his black combat boot. He'd then insisted that the Spanish sniper collect it. Squaring his back and planting his feet, he'd endured the choking sensation as the noose curled tight beneath his jaw and thus allowed Aramis a tiny room of movement to bend down to retrieve the knife.

Nevertheless, Athos had ultimately had to raise his bad leg and bend it at the knee, which was only slightly below where the kitchen knife was stuck in his flesh. It must have caused unbearable pain, but Athos stubbornly swallowed the screams which had to be lingering on his tongue. Aramis still felt them, though. It was the hitch of his friend's breath, the tremble of the cable as if it were a living python coiled around them. It was the helplessly balled fist beating against Aramis' lower back when the agony got too much to bear stoically. Normally, Aramis would jibe that Athos was finally revealing his homo-erotic inhibitions by grabbing his ass, but this was certainly not the time.

"Just… use the one… knife… you can… reach." Their leader's voice had become more quiet each time they spoke, as if the next laugh might be his last. As if a breeze might collapse what was left of the mighty warrior. Worry for his brother ate at his guts as Aramis shifted for the umpteenth time to relieve the stress on his windpipe.

His own vision was still swimming, walls moving like tress in a storm although he was pretty certain the stones were stable. His own body swayed like a sailor on land. However, all the discomfort in the world wouldn't mean he was ready to sign Athos' death warrant.

"Out of the question", Aramis answered with all the conviction his tired body could muster, "I pull that bitch's blade out and you loose whatever blood you have left. You drop, I hang. Not an option, you hear me?" He had to ask, because that the madman opposite him was just deranged enough to try and save Aramis by sacrificing his own life. Luckily, slowly bleeding out in this god-forsaken cellar must have mellowed him out some since Athos acquiesced.

"Ok."

"So we just keep our pretty heads together and… wait, did you hear that?"

He could feel the sluggish heartbeat of his brother pick up as Athos recognized the sound. Footsteps were coming towards them. And even though they were too light to be Porthos', Aramis own heart skipped a beat. Whoever this was, rescue was coming. Hell, he'd take a cleaning lady who could call the freaking bomb squad down here. Therefore, his first instinct was anger when he heard Athos shout.

"Stay away from the door! Don't come in! Do not open the door! There are explosives at the door! Do not come in!"

Of course the swordsman was right, how could Aramis have forgotten? He was staring right at the damn contraption. With a thankful look at the man, Aramis joined in the chorus while the steps got closer only to halt right before the entrance to their room. There was silence for a moment and Athos used the lull to send his friend an exasperated glance graced with a miniature smirk.

"You know they'd blown us right to pieces, don't you?"

"Yeah. I was just lost in thought."

"Unfamiliar territory, huh?"

"Thought?", Aramis chuckled, mollified to hear the well-known dry humor replace his brother's darker undertones. "Yeah, you're the genius, I'm just eye candy."

Athos chuckled, groaned, swayed. Aramis enclosed his sweaty fingers with his own, matching their instable bodies against each other in an attempt not to fall.

"Not… gonna… be so… pretty with broken… necks, are we?", his friend rasped. Aramis shook his head, concealing something between a smile and a grimace at that jewel of gallow's humor. Their friendly conversation was cut short by a voice from behind the wall. "I can't see anything!"

"It's on our side!", Aramis yelled back, adamant to make up for his lapse of judgment a moment ago, "Look through the window in the door."

Meanwhile, Athos back muscles had tensed again upon hearing their savior speak. Why? Aramis felt as if his thoughts were moving through quicksand, sinking deeper instead of rising through the surface in their usual quick manner. That voice… "It's the boy, isn't it?"

"The... criminal, yes", Athos confirmed grimly. He didn't sound all that happy and even in his less than stellar condition Aramis knew what was raining on Athos' parade. Being at the mercy of anyone was challenging to someone as used to control as Athos was. Aramis, too, felt the irritating nagging sensation – being in a position as vulnerable as theirs was no fun. Assigning the role of savior to the distraught youth with the questionable morals, who blames you for his father's demise, could not be easy for Athos. They would certainly have to talk about this. Of course that implied that they were being saved at all. Aramis shivered at the sudden thought. His strange confidence in the boy might very well be misplaced.

d'Artagnan didn't even have to kill them. He could, of course. He could come in somehow and pull out the knife in Athos' leg and watch the Musketeer bleed out. He could shoot the immobile human targets. He could 'accidentally' activate the bomb at the door. Or he could simply walk away. Any one of these scenarios was certain to kill them and there was not a damn thing the Musketeers could do about it.

"I'll call the cops!", d'Artagnan interrupted loudly, surprising the men with the logical solution. However, it might take hours before a bomb expert could be located and brought here. Aramis glanced at his brother's leg. Even the fabric he could see at the back of the lower leg was drenched in blood. They didn't have a minute to spare, let alone hours.

Yet Aramis couldn't shake the feeling that d'Artagnan was made from harder stuff. His mold was similar to their own. Time to test his mettle, even if failure would result in the death of himself and his brother.

"Not enough time. You have got to figure something else out!", he shouted back. While the young tanned face peering through the small window in the upper part of the door didn't betray anything except thoughtful concentration, Aramis smirked at Athos over his shoulder.

"d'Artagnan won't walk out on us. Just you watch, he's going to get these chains off us."

"Thought… I'd finally... shaken him... off", Athos muttered morosely and Aramis would have elbowed the thickheaded nihilist if the action wouldn't be so detrimental to their immediate survival.

"Oh, believe me, there are easier ways. And you ought to give the boy a chance. He'll surprise you."

"I don't..."

A monumental crash drowned out whatever Athos did not know. Suddenly glass was flying in every direction, prompting Aramis to stare in wonder. The window of the door had just broken. No, not broken. Exploded inwards by the force of a body hurtling through. He sailed inside like a missile, black boots first. These were followed by straight legs and a lean body that might graze the window frames but fit through the narrow opening like a sardine in a box.

Aramis grinned at the mental comparison, which was frankly unfair. The kid was certainly landing better than a sardine ever could, planting his feet like a gymnast dropping down from the uneven bars, arms coming down from above him to spread once for balance. Then he stood, unharmed, grinning brilliantly at them.

"Now that's the way to make an entrance!", Aramis congratulated, still stunned but smiling. Athos remained quiet, watchful.

"Free climbing does come in handy sometimes", d'Artagnan replied and shrugged. Now that the adrenaline from the insane jump had to be fading, he seemed uncomfortable, a little rigid around the chest. Must be the bruises, Aramis thought, ashamed to be reminded of his own part in those injuries. Nonetheless, the youth held himself erect as he approached Athos, who chose this moment to speak up.

"That's Porthos' weapon. And his holster."

"We got ambushed, he gave it to me so that I could rush in and save your sorry asses", d'Artagnan replied with a degree of bite which indicated that he'd picked up on Athos' mistrustfulness. "Porthos is alright, though, just a broken leg", the boy continued, his voice softer as he glanced at Aramis reassuringly. The knots around the sniper's heart loosened slightly upon hearing that at least one of his two foolhardy brothers was not in mortal danger. Now about the other one…

"Can you get us down? Be careful with the noose, though, it's booby trapped." He didn't even ask for freed hands, without a toolbox that endeavor would be useless and it was non-essential anyways. Surviving first, comfort second.

Even though he tried not to, Aramis couldn't help being nervous as d'Artagnan walked around the construction with open curiosity shining out of his eyes. The Musketeer was again struck by the amazing adaptability of their young friend. He wasn't nearly as freaked out as he should be, but Aramis' head hurt to much to contemplate the issue. Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, d'Artagnan nodded once to himself.

"Make some room up there, will you?" Grinning at Athos, the boy hopped nimbly onto the stool the older Musketeer was balancing on. His skinny arms wrapped around Athos shoulders in the parody of a hug while his feet were planted on the left and right of the Musketeer's fine leather slippers, stabilizing, anchoring him. He was so close that grazing the knife handle was inevitable and Aramis winced as his brother's hand now splayed against the Spaniards leather jacket in an effort to suppress a shout of pain. Oblivious, d'Artagnan still smirked. His left hand was slowly reaching for the steel cable beneath Athos' chin, the other held the back of the man's head, ready to guide him through the tight loop. Moreover, he'd picked up on Athos' apparent discomfort.

"Isn't this weird? It's got to look as if I'm just about to kiss you", the boy teased mercilessly.

Remiscing about their earlier conversation and getting a glimpse of Athos' pinched expression, Aramis couldn't help himself. He laughed out loud, despite everything that had happened, appreciating the boy's candor and sense of humor. "Do you want it to be weird?", he asked, grinning right back at the criminal over his shoulder.

d'Artagnan hesitated, judging how far to take the joke. One glance at the murder gleaming in Athos' eyes convinced him quickly, though. "No."

Meanwhile, he'd wormed his tanned fingers into the nonexistent space between cable and the pulse Athos' carotid artery. The humor fled like mist in sunshine as d'Artagnan and Athos tensed.

"Brace yourself, Aramis. This... might hurt." Athos' warning came a second too late, because d'Artagnan was already moving. He yanked down the cable, took Athos by the hair and pulled in two directions at once – the noose forwards, Athos' head backwards.

Although the action allowed the swordsman to slip out of the death trap, the initial freedom of movement came at a high price. Aramis choked, catapulted completely off his feet for a moment through the powerful yank on the other side of the scales. He kicked out reflexively, gagged. Then his weight caught and ripped the empty noose on the other end of the cable right out of the youngster's hand. Aramis fell, caught his heel once on the banana crate and toppled it. His bottom hit the edge of the wood and he screamed, a rough sound like sand paper.

Immediately his gaze searched for his brother, but he couldn't find him from his mostly lying position. Black waves crashed down over Aramis, drowning out the colors and all the distant air. The oppressive line of weight was a sharp pain against his neck like a knife digging into him. His hands, normally steady whether they were touching the skin of a woman or the metal of a rifle, now twitched violently on their futile quest to remove the obstruction to his air flow.

Panic and you suffocate. Hold still. Stop thrashing, let them save your life. His hard -earned thoughts worked their way through the initial shock and fear as he heard Athos' imperious voice. Gritting his teeth until he felt they must shatter, the marksman laid back and exposed his throat. Thankfully, d'Artagnan was right there and freed him from the noose.

Air, wonderful, vitalizing and soothing, rushed into his lungs, but it was too much at once. He coughed violently, causing his eyes to water. When he had finally blinked the moisture from his eyes, he focused on his brother.

"It's gone. It's fine. Look at me, look at me, I've got you." The litany, untrue as it might be, chased the last wraiths of panic from Aramis' body.

"Wow. That… that might just be the most unpleasant experience I've ever had", he rasped.

"What… about the Nigeria incident?", Athos commented dryly. Aramis snorted, filled with annoyance at the unwelcome reminder and with relieved laughter both.

"Don't remind me."

d'Artagnan, who'd respectfully given the Musketeers some space to regroup, sauntered over. Upon closer inspection the boy seemed running on fumes, much like the older men. His clothes were torn and bore evidence of the damage he'd endured. As he bent down to help Aramis and Athos sit up, he smelled of smoke and fuel.

"Thank you", Athos said sincerely and a bit grudgingly. Under better circumstances Aramis would have rejoiced about the bonds he felt grow between them all like tender roots. Right now, the blood oozing from his friend's wound drowned out all thoughts of connection.

"We need to tend that. Did you see a first-aid kit anywhere close?"

"There was one in the hallway. I don't think I can get through the window, though. There were pipes on the other side that I could use to swing myself across."

"I see."

"Deactivate… the device", Athos suggested quietly.

"And how do we do that?", d'Artagnan quipped sharply, impatient.

"I'll… teach you." Athos' thin voice resembled a defective voice recording and his skin shone whitely like a six hour old corpse, yet his mouth was a determined line and his eyes still were focused like a hawk. Intelligence shone out of them, not hindered by pain. d'Artagnan must have seen it, too, because he nodded.

"I'll be your hands. I'll do whatever you say."

"Good." Slipping easily into the authoritative role, Athos leaned against Aramis so that he could see around d'Artagnan and observe the evil contraption.

"Open the plastic box. No! Not like that. Don't touch the red-and-black wire on the right side." In his haste to finish the task the kid had perhaps been a bit rash. Nevertheless, he did try his best and Aramis poked his arm at his friend in silent rebuke. Be kind, you moron, his warm brown eyes whispered. Athos shrugged.

"Careful now. Good. See the two silver cylinders that look like short ballpoint pens? Those are our fuses. The white block..."

"That's C4", d'Artagnan contributed on his own. "I do watch TV sometimes. So what do I do?"

"Pull out the fuses."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Alright." Without so much as a breath to prepare himself, d'Artagnan plucked the fuses from the C4 like apples from a tree. Fearless, reckless in his trust.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** : Hi! Thanks so much for bearing with me! I loved all your reviews!

The next chapter is rather long, I hope you don't mind. Can any of you spot a quote or even pinpoint the episode I borrowed dialogue from? Tell me in the comment section below. I'm always glad about any review - wishes, feelings, rants, anything!

at **justaguest** : Thank you! I had so much fun writing the banter in that chapter, it was a true pleasure.

at **Welshessex** : Thanks a lot for reviewing! I'm glad you liked the first part of the chapter, I wasn't so sure about it myself. And you're correct, d'Artagnan is definitely proving himself to Athos.

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

"If we really learned from our mistakes, I'd be a genius by now", d'Artagnan muttered as he jogged through the corridor towards the exit, trying not to groan with each step. Little bee stings were harrowing his side with each uneven breath he took, a constant piercing that signaled his body's reluctance to be abused like this. The fingers around his new gun shook ever so slightly with exhaustion.

He had to be the greatest moron in history. First breaking and entering without a real reason, getting people killed in the process. Then, as if to make sure he would wear the crown of idiot town, he'd added teaming up with his kidnappers to his calling card, righteous and generous as those men were. Staying with them even as things spiraled down and out of control. Sticking with the Musketeers, the very men he'd sworn to get revenge from, even beginning to regard them as friends. He had to be insane.

"And I'm doing their dirty work, of course", he muttered, wound up too tightly to stay silent. d'Artagnan threw open the back doors to the hospital with so much force that they bounced right back at him. Blinking into the gray evening light and the pouring rain, he stepped onto the parking space and surveyed the area. According to theory and Athos, many perpetrators stayed to enjoy the show, which meant there had to be…

There! A not very inconspicuous yellow Lamborghini was sitting in the last row of cars, close enough to the gateway to allow a smooth exit. Not anymore, though, d'Artagnan vowed as he marched right over, heedless of the fact that he would be seen. Within ten seconds he was dripping wet, his white T-shirt clinging to his skin beneath the ruined jacket. His angry steps created little water explosions on the tarmac because his shoes were boats with leaks in them, sinking in rainwater faster than his socked feet could push out. Above all that, his jeans caught on a brier and tore at the right calf as he overcame the last median strip. Suffice it to say the Gascon was mad enough at the world to kill something as he arrived.

Upon seeing both the butler and the lady of the house inside the car, his confidence faltered for a dangerous heartbeat. What the hell was he doing here, doing another man's bidding? How was he going to overpower two people? All alone?

Then again, he wasn't really alone any longer. Aramis had sworn he'd be right behind him as soon as Athos' leg was bandaged. Porthos' gun was a reassuring weight in his palm. He brought it up in front of him in clear view of the car's two occupants who finally acknowledged him at that point.

Nevertheless, he had to open the passenger door himself, absurdly glad that they hadn't locked it and that he wasn't humiliating himself. He was not cut out for this kind of action, suddenly uncertain how to act without an tidal wave of adrenaline to carry him. What would the Musketeers do?

"Time to pay for your crimes, mylady", he said, aimed for commanding and landed at steadiness. "Out of the car. Both of you. Now."

Unfortunately, Mrs. Richter simply raised one of her finely maintained eyebrows. "d'Artagnan, is it? The last time I saw you, you were still working with us. What changed your mind?"

The fact that you're slaughtering people in a hospital. The fact that you set us up at the mansion. The…

"The Musketeers." The words slipped out before he could stop them, still very foreign and yet they felt right in his mouth. The grip on his gun steadied even as the terrorists smiled at him in an unconcerned manner.

"Those boys sure are a bother. And now Arty fancies himself one of them. A hero, I dare say", Mrs. Richter told Mirco in a cordial tone you might have used over a cup of coffee and the newest gossip, though she did keep an eye on the youth and his weapon. When she turned to face the boy completely, he felt compelled to take a step back when confronted with her aura of assurance. Unease flooded his stomach. This was turning out even more difficult than he'd anticipated. Who was in really control here?

"Cut your losses, d'Artagnan. There is no future for you in the Musketeers. How do you think things are going to go down? You'll be pardoned and live happily ever after with your new mates? Life does not work that way, boy."

"I..."

"They will send you to prison and throw away the key once they are through with you." Unbidden snapshots of the last days entered his mind. They had tied him up before. Beaten him. They had threatened to kill him. Was Mrs. Richter correct? Was he gambling his life away? The watery worms in his stomach multiplied, the gun wavered as if caught by a strong current.

"I would need protection...", he started, telling himself that he was just stalling until Aramis would get to the scene. He wasn't scouting his options, he was better than that – after all, he'd changed, hadn't he?

"Protection?" Mrs. Richter's voice rose an octave higher as she laughed shrilly. "Protection! The penalty for treason is death."

"You do realize I'm the one holding you at gunpoint, right? I can blow your brains out now and never think of you again", d'Artagnan shot back, opting to project a cool he definitely did not feel. His hair was plastered to his face, leaking involuntary tears into his eyes and making him blink as if crying while Mrs. Richter was still perfectly styled and dry in her car. He recognized that he wasn't perfect, but was he good enough? A good person?

"I understand the situation perfectly, dear. That is why I'm prepared to offer you a deal. Leave. Run right now. Keep the gun, keep whatever jewels your friend Jan stole from me and my friends. I won't even go after you and you will live your happy ever after. Is that good enough for you, Arty?" It was as if she could see right through his scrapes and bruises into his vulnerable heart and thereby crawl into his thoughts. She was pulling him under.

"Don't call him Arty. He doesn't like that", a voice behind them admonished. d'Artagnan relaxed right away and found a grin creeping onto his formerly tightly closed face at the welcome sing-song Spanish voice.

"That boy is a miracle. Thinks quickly on his feet, great problem solver, fantastic climber, a dirty fighter and since today he also defuses bombs. You should have kept him close so that nobody could snatch up all that raw talent." Although the marksman was speaking to the two bad guys in the car, d'Artagnan knew the compliment was meant for him. He also suspected that Aramis sensed the doubts roiling inside him.

Stepping aside, d'Artagnan made room for the Musketeer who took the gun with a flourish of thanks. He looked like the typical movie star of the last decade: roughed up but still sporting a cheeky grin to go with the classily ruffled hair and designer clothes. Next to him anyone would appear inferior - like a poor knock-off compared to the real deal. d'Artagnan, strangely enough, simply straightened and shook off the feeling. That guy was his friend, wasn't he?

"Took you long enough", he sniped lightly but a part of him desperately meant it.

"Sorry, I was busy with our resident grumpy cat. Athos gets unbearably whiny when he's injured", Aramis replied, winking.

"I do not", Athos said as he appeared out of the waterfalls everywhere, "However, I do object to being left behind." The Musketeer was deftly maneuvering a wheelchair through the puddles and even though flexing his wrists had to be terrificly painful, Athos oozed the relaxation of a Sunday cruise. When he caught up to a rather surprised Aramis, he let the dirty wheels bump against his friend's trousers to stop.

"Afraid to miss all the fun", Aramis whispered to d'Artagnan. The boy immensely enjoyed the show and moreover the stunned expressions on Richter's and Mirco's face until they caught themselves staring. They proceeded to glare at them, albeit looking rather miffed.

"I see you've risen from the grave", the woman said.

"You failed to kill us, if that's what you're referring to", Aramis said, subconsciously reaching for the purple line around beneath his jaw with his free hand that wasn't applying pressure to the bandages on his thigh. He then glanced at Athos and pulled up a shoulder into a one-sided shrug. "It seems we are both prone to resurrection."

"Cockroaches are hard to kill", Mirco grumbled. Neither of the Musketeers openly acknowledged him, but d'Artagnan saw a muscle in Aramis' face twitch. There was definitely some resentment there and a story that would need to be told sometime in the future. For now, though, the interrogation was more important.

"Did your revenge taste sweet?", Athos inquired grimly.

"For a moment. I'm disappointed that you decided to leave the party earlier than planned and without setting off the fireworks, though."

"Yeah, about that. Using us as human detonators to kill dozens of people so that you can set yourself up as some kind of savior – I don't get it. Haven't you got enough power?", Aramis jumped in.

"This was never about power."

"Of course it was."

"You understand nothing!" Whereas Aramis was all feigned disinterest, Mrs. Richter was a rising storm tide. She was wringing her hands in agitation and had raised her voice.

"Why don't you explain it to us then?", Athos inquired.

"She can't, 'cause she's too ashamed", Aramis supplied when the woman teetered on the edge, white in the face whereas her cheeks had flaming circles on them. She resembled an ugly porcelain doll, politician edition.

"I alone can face the truths that no one else can stomach! I am the only one who sees this country's downfall. I am the fighter on the front line, the woman who will lead us back to greatness after this crisis!", she screamed. Her outburst left her breathing hard, small frame heaving while only the platter of the raindrops on the car's hood softened the silence.

Mirco reached out and took her arm, thereby exposing an expensive watch on his wrist. The map light was mirrored in it, causing it to shine like torch itself. Mrs. Richter cleared her throat in a ladylike fashion and placed her hand on top of Mirco's. Her pink nail tipped against the glass above the clock-face twice, thoughtfully.

"Oh my dear Gentlemen, it has been a thrilling ride. Sadly, I'm afraid I must take my leave now."

"You're not going anywhere. Surrender or die. It is up to you", Athos growled. Blood was already soaking through the white gauze on his leg. It was impressive that he was even conscious.

"It's over, Frau Richter", Aramis agreed amiably. Both Musketeers were appalled when they were met with a wolfish grin instead of defeat.

"Not quite."

"What do you mean?" d'Artagnan asked and took a step forward to Athos and Aramis to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. Together they towered over a very unimpressed woman and butler. "What did you do?"

"The secret of a good trick is to make people look the other way", the German widow said and leaned over towards them. Her tone became conspiratorially low. "Tick, tick, tick… boom."

"No!" Aramis was horrified, pivoting to look at the hospital. "You're bluffing."

"Oh no, I am not. There is a convenient little timer behind the boxes in the room you were kept in. Did you deactivate it? It should be at thirty minutes now." She laughed like a hyena, waving her hand as if to shoo away a midge. "No matter. Even if you did, there are more explosives right in the corridor leading to the ER. Arty must have seen them when he entered through the side door half an hour ago."

Both Musketeers turned to stare at the criminal who gulped down shock and self-loathing. Knowledge was making his veins burn like acid, his mind whirring like a circuit close to melting. "Yes. Yes, there were boxes and fuses just like the ones on the door, only a lot more of them. I… I am so sorry." Eyes wide open and pleading, one hand sweeping his bangs off his forehead while the brutal truth hit home.

"I… No. Athos, I swear, I didn't know. I didn't know." Athos' eyes were unreadable in the dim light, guarded. d'Artagnan felt himself be judged in those blue-green depths in that moment and understood with a pang that he was being deemed a failure. Unfit. Unworthy. It echoed through him.

Nonetheless, d'Artagnan steeled himself to fight for his newfound place among those men when Mirco let another piece of information slip into the rainy night.

"You know, boy, we have you on tape marching right towards the explosives. And entering the room with the second set of explosives. Congratulations on the artistic entry, it proves that you knew about the bombs at the door. It will make you look perfectly guilty when the police receives the video right about now."

"I always wanted to be somebody. Guess I should have been more specific", d'Artagnan snapped through clenched teeth, working hard to keep up the brave facade. Perhaps he should have run when he had the chance and was not public enemy number one. Too late, his ship had sunk well below the water line and he was trapped beneath his wrong decisions.

"Well, now you must choose, d'Artagnan. If you help them, you're not going to survive the next five minutes inside that building. Or even if you don't get blasted to bits, you will never make it out. Then again, if you don't help them, you're not fit to call yourself a Musketeer. What is it going to be, Arty?" The woman was obviously taking perverse pleasure in taunting them and d'Artagnan sincerely hoped Aramis would just shoot her. Suddenly, another thought hit like lightning.

"Porthos! This is where they would have taken him! He's in there!" d'Artagnan raised his hands as if to ward off a blow, stricken by the pure horror of the situation, but it was Aramis who stumbled as if he'd been punched in the gut. He muttered something in his mother tongue that sounded like a prayer.

"Why are you telling us?", Athos wanted to know suspiciously. "You'd never confess without gaining something in the process."

"Let us leave and we will tell you where all the fuses are placed. You might just have time to save all the glorious innocents."

"No."

"Athos!" Aramis sounded shocked at the stoic monosyllable. "Athos, let her go!"

"She's a liar. And a murderer. And she's a terrorist."

"Athos!"

"No!"

"Oh well, never mind. Frankly, I don't have a remote control anyways. Also, I might have exaggerated on the thirty minutes deadline. Exaggerated a lot. About twenty-five minutes?", Mrs. Richter piped up.

"You crazy bitch!", d'Artagnan gasped, swung around and without looking back started into a full-out sprint. He heard a shot and an electric whine and then Aramis was right behind him, cursing loudly while he pushed Athos' wheelchair as fast as it would go. Their leader was reduced to holding the useless gun in his arms and trying not to be thrown off while Aramis ruthlessly took the direct route over curbs and through greenery. They all exchanged extremely concerned glances while mental clocks chased them in their heads like Tick-Tock the Crocodile. Wordless understanding flamed up between the two musketeers.

"d'Artagnan! Don't come in with us. We'll handle the bombs, but you'll be recognized. It'll only make things harder. Here, take the gun. Go after Richter before she leaves!", Athos instructed firmly.

"I..."

"We'll meet at the Holtenau Airport warehouse tomorrow at noon", Aramis promised and increased his speed again. In contrast d'Artagnan careened to a stop, splashing rainwater everywhere. The youth headed straight back to the Lamborghini, where smoke was emitted from the dashboard with a bullet hole in it. Richter and Mirco were gone.

* * *

The moment Athos pushed open the side doors to the ER and was confronted with utter madness, he was eighty-seven-point six percent sure that the world was going end.

Thirty percent originated from the sheer number of people one could see hurrying back and forth in the emergency reception area. Twenty percent were added by the music, a cacophony of noise, screams and a spooky rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody that was played at full volume out of a docking station. Ten for the fact that no doctors or security were visible. Ten for his own diminished fighting ability and his racing heart. Ten for the imminent bomb threat. Five for the sound of a woman screaming a high pitched shriek of surprised fear. And exactly two point six percent for the zombie that was leaning nonchalantly against the corridor wall while blood leaked from an axe impaled in its head.

"Aramis?"

"Yeah, bro, I'm seeing this, too."

"Just checking."

"What are you staring at?" The zombie got involved in the conversation now. It's red eyes blinked aggressively.

"Your costume", Athos replied drily, having grasped the situation. He wanted to laugh and scream at the universe for this curveball, but since when were things ever easy.

"Having a party?", Aramis asked distractedly while he turned the wheelchair and pushed it towards a dark green crate that resembled the barrels in their former prison.

"Indeed", the zombie said with a rumbling and very fake gravelly accent. "For the drunken bodies that were buried at Halloween and have crawled out of their grave now." Unfortunately, the background soundtrack had changed to Helene Fischer's newest cheesy Schlager song, so the effect was pretty much ruined. Athos debated whether he could use the partygoer to alert the hospital staff, yet the odor of spirits that drifted towards him convinced Athos that Frankenstein was not the right addressee. Additionally, a fat guy in a bright orange pumpkin suit and a prety horror fairy were on their way to collect their dead friend.

"All hail the Pumpkin King!", the pumpkin dude shouted and tripped over his own feet. He stumbled right past them in his brown-green stockings, only inches away from the crates. "S-Sick cosn const costumes, though, guuuuys! Love the torture dungeon shiiiit with those crazy ass lll… line works. Where diddya get that siiiick make-up done?"

"Yes, it's all fun and games", Aramis agreed amiably, whereas Athos was close to committing vegetable regicide. His throat hurt, his wrists still felt numb where d'Artagnan had cut away the wire with the pliers they'd found in the hospital's maintenance room. His leg was killing him, but sure, let's pretend we weren't tortured and blame the bruises on hardcore Halloween hype.

"We don't have time for this", he snidely informed Aramis, who was trying to keep the drunk fairy from opening his pants and kissing him. The zombie seemed embarrassed while Aramis grinned, exhilarated by the adrenaline and perhaps the closeness of the gorgeous blonde with glittery turquoise wings. He wasn't entertained enough to loose sight of the mission, of course.

"I know." The same instance his deft fingers tore open the crate to expose a mess of wires and blinking lights, he positioned Athos' chair and clicked down the immobilizer. His brows came down as he surveyed Athos' pitiful state of health, assessing quietly. Athos straightened in annoyance although he knew the Spaniard meant well. "I got this", he said gruffly. "Go. Take care of the other one."

"Taaaake on meee!", the fairy chanted with a very mortal and off-key voice. Aramis gently batted her arms away before she could hug him. The zombie took one of her arms and steered her back towards the crowd of party monsters in the waiting area. They're blissfully unaware, Athos thought grimly, listening to Aramis rapid footsteps fade into the blaring music.

His eyes and mind were already occupied with the new problem: namely, the bomb in front of him. A lot more complicated than the first one, wires in all colors tangled together above an electronic stopwatch that read four minutes ten seconds. Athos felt the crushing weight of responsibility, a pressure he knew all too well. Working quickly, he detached the main wire that lead to the black stopwatch, appalled when two beeps caused the clock to deduct half the remaining time. A nearly invisible wire had been connected to the back – a fail-safe.

Cursing silently and now very wary of traps, Athos set to work on pulling out all the detonators like he had advised d'Artagnan roughly half an hour ago. There were eight of them, two now freed. Six went out easily, but the last two were hidden beneath the block of explosive. One minute left on the watch. Any number of nasty things could happen if he pulled up the block. Pressure sensors, light sensors… forty seconds.

Athos grit his teeth, sweat pooling on his skin. He leaned forwards and reached into the box as if he wanted to kned dough. His fingers, however, were slow and very tentative beneath the grey block of death. The seventh detonator had been pressed haphazardly into the matter, it wasn't even submerged. Plucked out quickly. One to go. Thirty-six seconds on the clock. His limbs were trembling, leg pounding, mind focused.

Where was the last bugger? Twenty seconds to go and even though he could see the wire going underneath the block on the right side, he could trace it to the detonator. Scrambling now, flat hand against the block, he closed his eyes and followed the fire with his fingertips. It disappeared right in the middle of the C4 and, as a last resort, Athos pulled on the wire as hard as he could. Nine seconds as the detonator fell into his palm. Six as he threw them all out of the box and down the corridor. He hadn't even leaned back when they lit up in eight consecutive tiny explosions of light. A little cloud of smoke wafted up to the ceiling and a fire alarm began to blare.

Athos sighed, allowing himself a smug expression. He was extremely good at this. Appropriately, the song in the ER had changed to "Seven Nation Army" and damn him if he didn't feel just like The White Stripes as they wrote the song.

A split second later, the sound was swallowed by a massive boom. Athos' eyes widened, fists clenched but unable to run as a wave of heat rushed down the corridor from Aramis' direction, followed by a gigantic crash. The fire alarm fell into Athos' lap as the ceiling cracked but thankfully held. Athos stared uncomprehendingly down the corridor that was now dusty with debris, struck speechless. Then he suddenly found his voice again and screamed.

"Aramis!"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:**

And the Award for the best quote spotting goes to...

 **Continuous quote spotter** : Jmp! For spotting quotes since episode 2.

 **Quote detective** : Debbie! She knows not only the quotes but also who said it in which context.

 **Expert quote spotter** : Helensg! For spotting quotes from two episodes in a single chapter.

 **Special thanks** to pallysdeeks, Justaguest, arduna, Luthien17 and Deana for also recognizing quotes.

And to all you other readers and reviewers out there: all of your clicks and comments are awesome! They make me very happy. I would also love to hear about any of your wishes or feelings about the next chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Some people just want to watch the world burn. For them there is beauty in the glorious flames licking at buildings, symphony in the screams of victims and peace to be found in the pieces left behind. Some people can never feel anything except through the terror of others. Some people are helpless to stop themselves and their monster inside, simple bystanders at the scene of their bloody crime. Some were hurt in the past and if beauty is pain, there shall be beauty in everything. And some people wholeheartedly believe in the terrible catharsis they need to cause. In their own dark diaries, they're the teachers of mankind, mothers and fathers of a new and better future.

Athos coughed. Analytical thoughts ran like an endless movie, keeping him caught in his seat. Mrs. Richter was of the latter category. Mrs. Richter had taken her name, the German equivalent of the word judge, and set herself up as judge, jury and executioner of innocents. Mrs. Richter had won, they had lost. Was this the new and better future?

He coughed again, blinked slowly, tried to straighten in his seat and failed. If this was the future, the future would be gray. Dust coated everything and it was gloomy after most of the lights had shut down. Some people were moving, stumbling as if they were all zombies in a horror movie. Some people were not moving at all.

Athos coughed, spitting blood on the floor from a cut inside his cheek. His blue empty eyes were roaming through the corridor, caught in shock and pressed into the theater seat. Somebody rushed by, a fairy woman sobered up by the living nightmare they were immersed in. She screamed like a true banshee, claws caught in her hair as she fell to her knees beside the dead pumpkin king. The sound pierced the cloud of fog around him and suddenly, the signals he had been receiving reached his brain with overwhelming force.

He coughed, rocked back into the leather backrest while his fingers curled around the armrests of his wheelchair. He jumped as if hit by a bolt of lightning, hair flying as somebody grasped his shoulder and pulled him completely back into his body. It was the fairy, tearstreaked and frantic in her pleas. Her make-up was holding tight to her features, though, glittery and beautiful in her heart-wrenching pain.

"Hilfe! Helfen Sie mir, er atmet nicht!" He's not breathing, Athos repeated mentally and stared at the woman without comprehension.

Who?

Aramis. Was Aramis still breathing? Aramis had been running right at the explosion, at the bomb. He'd obviously not made it. The bomb had detonated, but where was Aramis?

"Please! Please, help!"

He couldn't help, he had to find Aramis. Athos gruffly shook off her fingers and spiraled himself forward, opting for a route right around the teenager's body when the guilt hit. Aramis would never allow him to do this were he here. The Spaniard would despise Athos for not caring about the civilians first. Treville's words from training shot through him like an order. Civilians first. Nonetheless, he hesitated while his heart reached into the bowels of the hospital towards his brother's whereabouts. Where was Aramis? Was he alive?

"Step aside, let me look at him." He couldn't leave. He could not search for the medic, not yet. Civilians first, no matter how much it hurt.

"What's his name?", he asked, mostly to occupy the crying banshee next to him. Slipping out of his seat, he sat down next to the boy. As close as he was right now, he estimated the youth to be around twenty years old and in good physical condition beneath the fluffy orange costume. However, there was no pulse and a big head wound to consider.

"Nikolai."

"Take off Nikolai's dress. I need to reach his chest", he instructed calmly. As expected, the woman obeyed, clinging to authority and the task like a lifeline. Her manicured fingers were slim and pretty as she worked on the zipper of the costume, nearly as quick as Aramis'.

Athos carefully turned the boy's head aside so that he could examine the wound. Light brown hair obstructed his vision and a sizable pool of blood was staining the hospital hallway. The fairy had exposed the kid's chest, which was sprinkled with freckles here and there. It wasn't moving and with each second his hopes of survival were dwindling.

"Start compressions in the middle of his chest. Push down as hard as you can to the rhythm of Staying Alive by the Bee Gees. "

"Like that?" She was determined now.

"Yes. Continue."

The musketeer gave up on seeing anything in the low light and felt along the skull for the wound. Suddenly the bone gave beneath his very light touch and he found a hole the size of a penny. A small piece of metal, perhaps a spatula, poked out of it and something squishy was leaking out. Brain matter, he thought grimly and tried to keep his stomach inside his own body as he dry heaved. Nikolai had a piece of metal lodged deeply in his brain, and it was apparent that it had been moved, probably by the impact with the floor. This would have ruptured his brain, killing any possibility of life.

Athos leaned back, took a deep breath. Coughed in the dust and tried not to break beneath the strain of having lost a life. It was his fault the young man would never again smile, kiss somebody or simply open his eyes. The freckles on his chest blurred as Athos cried a single tear of regret before he firmly locked his emotions down and threw away the key.

"Stop", he told the fairy, who looked up at him as if he could move mountains.

"Do we need to do mouth-to-mouth now?" She'd seen it in his face, that's why her high voice was trembling like his tired muscles. The banshee didn't believe it yet, but she knew. And this made him the herald of death, a role he despised.

"I am so sorry for your loss", Athos said without inflection, too close to losing it himself to offer solace. He winced as she let loose a wail worthy of the mythical creature she was impersonating. Her blond hair fell into her face as she bent down to caress her friend's body.

"Please don't leave me." She whispered time after time and stayed lost in an embrace with Nikolai's limp body.

"I'm sorry." With a strength he hadn't known he still possessed, Athos pushed himself back up into the wheelchair. Nikolai's face morphed into Aramis as Athos blinked and dizzily fought a blackout. The numbness was threatening to spin a cocoon around him again, but Athos pushed a fist down into his knife wound and the pain brought him back. Hot needles against the cool detachment of impending shutdown.

Aramis. Civilians came first, but there were no other civilians in the corridor and he could see nurses and doctors in the bigger ER room. Off to his left, sirens announced the arrival of reinforcements. He could find Aramis now. He had to make sure Aramis was safe.

The thought lent him wings as he drove around pieces of the wall, doors that were bent inside and around capsized trolleys full of medical equipment. The closer he got to ground zero, the worse the destruction became. He could already see the entrance to the room, yet there was no beaming Spaniard in sight.

Would there be anything left to bury? What if it wasn't even recognizable any more, burned to a crisp? What if he'd only find pieces? His stomach was in open rebellion, bile pushing against his stubbornly closed mouth.

His wheels crossed the threshold to the wrecked chamber and Athos' breath caught as he surveyed the chaos no human could possibly survive. The barrels were completely shredded, the thick plastic strewn around the room and sticking in the walls like an alien decoration. There was a little wood in the corner that might have been a banana crate before but could be used as kindling now.

"Aramis. Aramis, don't leave me." His words and thoughts echoed the woman's feelings in the corridor, a black hole of grief and confusion and the nagging question of why. Why hadn't they stayed outside, why had they gone inside, why had Aramis not deactivated the bomb in time? Why had they been too late, why hadn't Aramis achieved his goal? Why had he failed, why…? Anger took over.

"Aramis!", he bellowed in an unexplainable rage and hit the wall with bone-breaking force. "Aramis!"

"Athos." It was a whisper in the dead of night but also a ray of sunshine. A way out of this catastrophe. It was the voice of a living being, a promise.

"Aramis, where are you?" He was already moving, carelessly bumping against trash and pushing the wheels with bleeding knuckles towards the door. He stopped right in the doorway as he heard a raspy intake of air, followed by a single sound of hope.

"Here."

Turning left, he chucked away the remains of the broken iron door as if they were a sheet of paper. He didn't even think about the action, solely focused on the twitching hand that could be seen beneath it. Aramis came into view as the door clattered to the ground. He was covered in even more dust than Athos and looked thoroughly bruised. His head was lying on his outstretched arm, eyes halfway closed but aware. His body spasmed in aftershocks every once in a while, feet kicking out feebly.

"Thanks for lifting that. Bit heavy", he managed to say between grimaces and coughs that sounded just like his brothers'. The elder musketeer let himself fall to the floor again, overcome with the madness of his warring emotions. Anger, relief, fear, worry, happiness.

"You fool", he murmured and pulled the man's head onto his lap, grateful for the warm flesh and the faint heartbeat through the clothes. Had somebody asked him to let go of his brother right now, Athos wouldn't have been capable. He held on.

"We refuse to die", Aramis said and grinned, his teeth white in the darkness.

"Why were you so close to the explosion?" Athos voice was rough and strict, a commanding officer. In contrast Aramis chuckled light-heartedly.

"Had fifty seconds. Saw a dozen detonators, too many cables. Checked the barrels and saw water inside, so I dumped the bomb into the middle one. Hoping for short circuit or something, I dunno. I ran. Felt the boom and dove behind the doors. Heatwave, blackout", he summarized with a lot less verbosity than normal. Seems like explosions disable charm for a while, Athos thought wryly. Having checked his brother over for injuries, Athos was mostly certain that the Spaniard would be back to his tricks soon.

"You're a fool", he repeated, stroking his brother's hair absently. All the while, he couldn't conceal an affectionate smile. Leave it to Aramis to make it through hell in one piece. Neither of them had any ambition to move, so they were in exactly the same position when the rescue forces eventually found and evacuated them.

The medics were a team of very efficient triplets. Dark skin, bald heads and funny German accents that indicated their origin from Bavaria. Their hands were certain and only prodded where it was necessary, so Athos warily granted them access to his brother. Said brother squeezed his hand reassuringly even as they took them away in separate ambulances.

One of the triplets, Athos couldn't guess whether it was Paul, Gerrit or Johann even though they had introduced themselves only a minute ago, was riding with him and patiently explained what would happen to Aramis while he worked on Athos. He must have recognized the tension leaving him as soon as he began to talk about the Sniper. Perceptive man. "He has a lot of blunt trauma. We need to make sure his internal organs aren't damaged. This will take a while, but since you are next of kin we will keep you updated?"

Athos simply grunted. Moving seemed too much of a chore right now, his body as heavy as if the sky was resting on his shoulders.

"Hallo? Herr Athos, Sie müssen wach bleiben..." Need to stay awake. Need to… sleep.

He woke to the sound of a woman bossing around somebody else and immediately relaxed. It was a warm and caring voice with just enough bite to scare off the children, light of tone and easy in her experienced confidence. Anne was here.

Athos opened his eyes and acknowledged her after he'd checked on the other two beds in the room: Aramis and Porthos were sleeping soundly. In the meantime, Anne was wearing her amour of choice: an elegant black pantsuit paired with high heels and a simple white top beneath. All eyes were drawn to her neck and her hands, though, where thick golden jewelry with a few large emeralds showed off her wealth and position. Even more emeralds in her updo subtly suggested a crown. Athos nodded to himself, satisfied with the impressive figure she cut. The policeman opposite her did not stand a chance.

"I need to interrogate them. They could be valuable witnesses", the officer said, although his sour tone indicated that he thought it unlikely.

"My men are protected by diplomatic immunity. Furthermore, they are exhausted and injured. You will not wake them to conduct your interview."

"One of them is awake!" His voice became louder, which earned him a disapproving glance from Anne. She didn't even turn around to check whether the man was correct. To her it apparently didn't make a difference either way.

"Call your superior. You are not qualified to be here and impose on foreign dignitaries." Oh, Anne was losing her patience. Athos slowly turned his aching head and wondered how long this tug-of-war had been going on. At least the officer seemed to have gotten the memo and trudged off.

"That was brilliant, Anne. Poor chap never know what hit him", Aramis suddenly complimented. Whereas Anne nodded with a polite smile, Athos' eyebrows came down slightly in a suspicious expression. He glanced at the hospital bed to his right.

"Porthos?"

"What?"

"None of you were actually sleeping?", Athos asked, a little embarrassed that he hadn't spotted the deception right away.

"Nah, sleep is overrated." The man shrugged, then he turned thoughtfully to Anne.

"Is it legal to take out a life insurance policy on someone you aren't related to?"

Taken aback, Anne crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I don't know. Why?"

"Well, somebody should benefit from their bad decisions", Porthos claimed and pointed at both his comrades. Aramis laughed, which quickly morphed into a wince he tried to hide.

"I managed to disable my bomb", Athos submitted in his defense. Aramis didn't take offense at the implication, an obvious sign that he wasn't back to normal yet. Before the trio could dissolve into bickering, Anne stepped between them.

"What were you even doing there? Constance informed me in the morning that you were interviewing witnesses but then you weren't reachable all day and I had to receive a call from the hospital to find out where you are." She was worried and frankly, she had a right to be. Athos sighed and quickly recounted the story. Porthos added his input to the tale and soon a picture was forming in their minds.

"You are lucky to even be alive", Anne muttered and Athos noticed that her glance was lingering on Aramis a little longer than necessary.

The door opened before they could discuss any further plans. A man with black hair and a cane entered. His beady eyes roamed over them and their visible bruises before he addressed Anne.

"Good morning, Madame. My name is Ferdinand Meister. I'm the chief of police." Taking her hand and kissing it without permission, his sleazy grin widened. "According to witness testimony, Athos of the Musketeers was seen tampering with an explosive device just prior to the explosion. I would very much like to hear his statement. All of you men's statements, beginning with how they were injured."

The beetle eyes held no sympathy at all as the chief of police surveyed the lines around Aramis' and Athos' throat.

"Moreover, there is the question of their credibility since they were reported in company with a known terrorist."

"Rubbish." That was Porthos. Athos, already taking a great dislike to the interrogator, remained quiet and watchful.

"The Chancellor might not believe their words, Mr. Meister, but she will certainly believe mine."

"The Chancellor? This isn't about politics, this is about finding and prosecuting the terrorist Charles d'Artagnan before he can kill any more people."

"Everything is about politics", Anne said calmly. Her stance and her position between the German and the musketeers proved that she would gladly get Chancellor Merkel involved if it would help her cause. In response, Meister changed tactics.

"Where is he? Are you hiding him somewhere? I know what you Musketeers are like."

"What are you talking about, monsieur?", Aramis interjected all doe eyed. Athos suppressed a smirk.

"He was seen with you yesterday afternoon."

"Well, he's not with us, I can assure you that", Athos said drily and indicated the room.

"Harboring a fugitive is a crime and diplomatic immunity only goes so far." Was that a warning or a threat? The amount of posturing involved definitely suggested the latter. Athos frowned, a gesture that was mirrored on Anne's fine features.

"Conflict between France and Germany is a high price to pay if there is any doubt", she answered. To the untrained eye it must look as if Meister hadn't even managed to rock her boat, but Athos could see the strain in her rigid shoulders. Aramis could see it as well, because he quickly diverted the attention to himself.

"Well, I challenge that assumption. I have no choice", the Spaniard said with a smile, "Since you have the whole story backwards, I shall endeavor to challenge anything you say."

"Oh?" Interest lit up the chief's face. His ringed fingers tapped on his cane.

"That boy saved our lives. You should be lookin' for Mrs. Richter and her butler. They set up the bomb and they tried ta kill us."

"Mrs. Tamara Richter is grieving for her husband, who you know was killed in the initial assault on the Richter home. She will be questioned but only as a victim. She's a highly esteemed citizen. I highly doubt her involvement", Ferdinand Meister replied. Athos noticed that he didn't take any notes and showed no surprise whatsoever. The old man hesitated for a moment, though, and Athos hoped that they'd finally gotten through to him. Then the supercilious expression returned onto the pale skin in full force.

"Also, Mrs. Richter does not have and has never had a butler. Perhaps you should talk to your men about lying to the police, Madam."

Anne simply stared him down, neither giving an inch until Meister turned on his heel and stalked out. In the doorway he halted. "I don't know whether you are confused or mislead, but Charles d'Artagnan is a conniving individual and the German authorities will not rest until he is brought to justice. Do not interfere, gentlemen, you're already walking on very thin ice."

Involuntarily, Athos wondered whether in Meister's opinion justice equaled a fair trial or a bullet to the heart. What a despicable man he was, but the fact remained that the chief of police would not lie to them. "If Mirco is not a butler, who is he?"

"And most importantly, where do we find him and Richter?", Aramis added. "Can we even verify any of our claims? What can we prove?"

"We need to find at least one of them", Anne agreed, "It'll be the only way to exonerate d'Artagnan."

They thought about it for a while. Athos was mostly busy keeping up with the ridiculous theories Aramis was coming up with: the more they talked, the more lively the Sniper became. The medication he'd been given to ease his concussion symptoms and the deep tissue bruising was obviously working well.

"Remember what I told you about the butler?", Aramis inquired after a while. He was leaning back against the pillows on the headboard in a tired manner, but his mind was chipping away at the problem like a stone mason.

"Extrovert. Sportive. Grown up poor", Athos summarized.

"Yes. I based that assertion partially on his hands. They were calloused here and here", he said and showed them parts of his own palm. "His skin is tanned. He has a bad back from lifting things or pulling hard without the right techique. He lives in a port town. He's a sailor."

"That's a rather long shot", Athos admonished while Anne send a message to Constance on her phone. Once it was done, she looked at all of them sharply.

"This must be done properly. According to the rules. Another misstep and we might have to leave this country."

"Damn the rules." Athos' voice was quiet but filled with determination. Aramis smiled at him from across the room as they all threw off their covers.

"My sentiments exactly. Let's go catch us a ghost."

* * *

 **German translations:**

 _Hilfe! Helfen Sie mir, er atmet nicht! - Help! Help me, he is not breathing!_

 _Hallo? Herr Athos, Sie müssen wach bleiben. - Hello? Mr. Athos, you need to stay awake._


End file.
